Magnificent Seven
by Grandiose Me
Summary: M!Cousland/Morrigan, M!Surana/Zevran, F!Tabris/Leliana, F!Aeducan/Alistair. Het, slash, and femmeslash. What if Duncan had been able to recruit all six possible Wardens for Ostagar, instead of just one?
1. Lyna Mahariel

Author's Note - **Important, you will probably want to know this stuff **(sorry about the length). I've been working on this fic for a while, and it's probably going to be updated in large chunks, with gaps between updates - particularly since there's another fic I'm working on as well. So if you are the kind of person who doesn't like long waits in their reading, you might want to hold off until it's complete. I will probably update more than one chapter in each instalment, since I'm dividing chapters by character perspective (when this happens, I will include an author's note summarizing recent events in previous chapters, and referring/marking the 'update point' for readers). Origins have been assigned default names, with the following decisions made on my part: The mage is an elf, Cousland, Brosca, and Surana are all male, and Mahariel, Aeducan, and Tabris are female. Personalities are basically extrapolations of what seemed kind of likely to me, with a bias towards everyone _not_ being total jerkass monsters.

Full Summary: What if Duncan had recruited all six possible Wardens for Ostagar? What if there were _seven_ Grey Wardens who survived, rather than two? How would that change the story and events of the game?

Pairings: M!Cousland/Morrigan, M!Surana/Zevran, F!Tabris/Leliana, F!Aeducan/Alistair, some others ala F!Mahariel/Tamlen, etc. Obviously, this story contains het, slash, and femmeslash. People who would prefer **not** to read from the perspective of a character engaged in slashy behaviour should look for chapter titles with the names of either Surana or Tabris (depending) and skip them. Since most events will be summarized in author's notes, you could probably actually just pick one origin character and read the whole fic through from their perspective, if you wanted to (although it would be a much shorter story that way).

I'm not really looking to just rewrite the game here, so scenes and dialogue which aren't substantially different from the source material will probably just be glossed over or summarized. That said, I would like to dedicate this story to the lovely people who leave reviews - you guys are awesome - and hope at least someone out there enjoys this!

* * *

"_I know not what dark power held you, but it nearly bled the life from you."_

She was almost too small to remember it, the first time the clans came together.

Paivel had her up on his shoulders, his then-blond hair tangled beneath her fingers as she saw the aravels from the hilltop, spread out far and wide, a vast collection of clans that almost made the forest look like a shemlen city at a distance. She had stared and stared, drinking in the sight of it, the white dots that were halla and the far-spreading ants which were truly elvhen.

"Look!" she had exclaimed, for lack of any better word, and her seat had rumbled as Paivel and Ashalle laughed.

"Yes, da'len," Paivel said. "This is the Arlathven, at last. You will play with many children you haven't seen before in the days to come."

The idea had seemed both strange and exciting all at once, but despite his words, both Paivel and Ashalle had kept a close hand on her when they had descended amidst the crowds of aravels and the faces of unfamiliar elves. Eventually her twisting around, trying to see everything all at once, had gotten her lowered from the storyteller's shoulder, and her perch had been replaced by Ashalle taking firm hold of her hand.

"We will settle ourselves, and then you may explore," she had said, when Lyna had begun to tug at her fingers. "I do not want to lose track of you in this bustle, da'len."

She had wanted to go and see everything, to meet everyone, but it had been hard to sulk because even from Ashalle's side there was so much to look at. Halla were everywhere, elves running to and fro to keep the herds settled, and craftsmen had erected tents filled with wares that caught her eye, and all around there were people, people talking, laughing, embracing, crying happy tears of reunion, clapping one another on the shoulder or scooping children up off of the ground. The scent of food and cooking fires had filled the air as well.

"There is going to be a great feast," Ashalle had told her, and then her face had lit up in happiness as she spied something over her shoulder. "Oh, Dirinin! Lethellan!" she had called, spying a round-faced woman with her same straight hair, and the markings of Ghilan'nain upon her face.

"Ashalle!" the woman had called back, seeming just as pleased as she suddenly rushed forward, and the two embraced. "I've been looking for your encampment since morning! Our clan is nearly on the other side of all this," she'd exclaimed, before pulling back and looking the other woman over. "You would not believe the fuss Alamric is making over his pottery. It was enough to make me abandon him." Her face had been smiling, though, and fond as she said that.

"I think I _would_ believe it, in truth," Ashalle had replied, and Lyna had taken the opening of her distraction to wander off, following the shine of some trinkets hanging from a wide-mouthed tent. She had not felt afraid at all when she looked at them, and then wandered further, staring at the strange faces of unfamiliar elvhen and their varied styles of clothes. Some of the elves she didn't recognize looked to be more or less like the members of her own clan. Others had oddly woven clothing, or different styles of craft, or an even broader variance of blood writing on their faces.

There were lots and lots of children about as well. Most were older than her, although there were some her own age about, and younger ones were bound up in bundles against their parents' chests. She had walked and wandered and looked until she came upon a fenced enclosure of halla, and then she had slipped through the slats in the wood and gone to pet them, as she often did.

They were not halla that she knew, but they were just as friendly, their white coats soft beneath her hand and the grown ones very tall, with their horns elegantly carved and gentle dark eyes that watched her move. She had let them nose her palm and chew lightly on her hair, giggling and happy when one of the baby ones strode up to her on skinny legs and let her feed him sweet grass from her pocket.

She had always loved the halla.

But eventually she'd grown bored with even them, and more interested in the goings-on beyond the pen, and so she had clambered back out with the intention of wandering off anew.

"Now what were you doing in there, da'len?" an unfamiliar voice had asked, and she had blinked up to see a tall, fair-looking woman regarding her curiously, her arms burdened by baskets of feed. She had smiled, and Lyna had liked the warmth in that expression. "Did you get lost? Or wander off?"

"See the halla," she had replied, mumbling in a fit of shyness. A man had come up, then, with a boy tucked underneath one arm.

"Hmm?" he had followed the line of the woman's sight, even as she knelt in front of Lyna, still smiling. "Another one wandered off I see. Children know no fear." He'd laughed.

The woman's eyes had glittered with the same mirth. "Someone's probably worried for you, small one. How old are you?"

Looking between the two – and curiously at the boy, who had his fingers stuffed in his mouth and seemed just as interested in her – she had held up one hand, three fingers outstretched. "Three?" the woman had noted, lowering her basket. "Well, that's just a little bit older than my Tamlen, then. Do you know where your mother is? Or father?"

"Behind'a veil," Lyna had replied, because it was the truth. She was a little surprised at the way everyone's expression fell at her proclamation.

The man had sighed. "Shemlen, no doubt."

"You don't know that for certain," the woman had gently chastised, before extending her hand towards Lyna. "Who is the person who takes care of you, then?"

Unhesitatingly, Lyna had taken her hand, and told her, because even if these weren't people she knew well she was fairly used to having a wide range of adults look after her. The woman had picked her up after that, and she'd found herself at eye-level with the little boy, who had grinned around the fingers still firmly lodged against his lips.

"Ananishan," he had mumbled at her, before burying his face against his father's chest.

"Andaran atish'an," the man had smilingly corrected, before the sounds of Ashalle's frantic calling had reached their ears.

* * *

"Da'len," Paivel said, running his fingers over the ridge of his brow. "Our people did not flee the dales because the shemlen unleashed a hoard of fire-breathing bears upon us."

There were a few snickers around the story fire, and Lyna painted on her best, most earnest look, tilting her head a little bit for emphasis. "Well, you said yourself most of the lore has been lost, hahren," she replied. "How do we know for certain that fire-breathing bears _weren't_ involved?"

Merrill elbowed her in the side, at that, giving her a sharp look which implied that she was _ruining_ the story. Which wasn't exactly fair, since they'd all heard it before, and really, fire-breathing bears could only serve to make a story better. Like ghost-wolves. And dragons. And demonically possessed bunny rabbits.

"We know," Paivel said, persevering despite the staggering odds against him. "Because there are no fire-breathing bears anywhere to be found, and I believe such creatures would inevitably draw attention."

"Not if they were sneaky about it."

Maren finally cracked at that, dropping her face into her hands as she tried to stifle her giggles.

"Sneaky, fire-breathing bears," Merrill replied, shaking her head. "What is wrong with you? Did… I… what is _wrong_ with you?"

Paivel sighed at them. "Now, now," he broke in, raising his hands in a gesture that called for peace. "There is no fault in a… in an abundance of imagination." He turned a stern eye towards Lyna. "Though there are some tales to which it should not be applied."

Lyna spread her arms in a universal gesture of 'who, me?' and blinked hugely. "Hahren. I'm _sure_ you told me about those bears last time."

Maren fell over.

With another huge sigh, Paivel shook his head, and pointed to the edge of the circle. "Enough," he sternly intoned. "If you are only going to persist in misbehaving, Lyna, then you may sleep, and we will carry on without you."

She gave him a wounded look. "If that's how you feel. I'll just stay quiet, then."

For some reason, no one looked terribly convinced.

* * *

It was the second Arlathven of her life, and she watched the trees pass as she perched atop Ashalle's aravel, resting her legs and feeling her heartbeat speed in her chest. Already they had met up with three other clans, and the air felt like it had been sparked with a flint and encouraged to burn. The wildlife had anticipated their coming, clearing from the forest before them, but a few little brown birds still swooped and darted through the air. It was beautiful.

"Da'len, you are far too high!" Ashalle protested, and she winced, realizing she'd been caught clambering up to the very top of the stacked tents and supplies. "Climb down before you fall and break your neck!"

"What was that, Ashalle? I can't hear you up here!" she tried, tucking her legs firmly against her perch as she raised her arms in an exaggerated shrug.

Her guardian frowned back up at her. "Lyna, please, _please_ do not stop my heart with fright before we have even reached our destination!" she beseeched. "Once we are there I am certain you will cause more than enough trouble to kill me from shock, so can you not do me this one kindness and _behave_ until then?"

Why did she have to sound so forlorn about it? With a sharp pang of disappointment, Lyna shifted some of her balance to her hands, and carefully clambered down from her scenic perch. When she dropped to the ground Ashalle wrapped her arms around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Thank you," she said, giving her another brief squeeze before letting go.

Lyna sighed and scrubbed a hand against the side her head.

"I can keep my balance, you know," she pointed out under her breath, but Ashalle just smiled, and so she rolled her eyes and walked ahead. Maybe she could find Merrill or Maren, and actually do something _fun_ for a while.

It wasn't easy going. The clans had merged upon their travel routes, the keepers migrating towards the center of the convoy to better control the aravels over rough patches of terrain, and already there were more of them than she could easily recognize. She couldn't exactly spot Merrill, or Maren, or any of the other children she knew – or any children close to her own age, from her clan or not. For a moment she thought she spied Maren's father, but when she followed him she realized that it was just a man who looked similar from behind.

That was when she spotted the boy. Frankly, by that point, he was close enough to her age and she was tired enough of searching that he could have had green ears for all she cared.

"Aneth ara, boy," she chirped, coming up from behind him – where he trailed after a small aravel – and making him jump.

He spun around, pale blue eyes widening, and fumbling with something in his hands before he shoved it behind his back.

"Um."

There was a pause, as they both realized at the same moment that he had erred, and that it was blatantly obvious he was hiding something. He knew that she knew, and she knew that he knew that she knew.

He blinked.

She tilted her head at him, smelling mischief. "What was that?"

"What was what?" he took a step back from her, glancing over his shoulder to make certain no one was watching him from that angle.

It made her grin. "That thing in your hands," she persisted, taking a step closer to him. He was round-faced and a little awkward-looking, the shortness of his sleeves and pants implying that he'd just gone through a growth spurt not long ago.

"There's nothing in my hands. I don't know what you're talking about," he insisted, and when she craned her neck to try and see behind him, he moved to evade her. "I don't even know you."

"My name is Lyna," she told him, pleased to have found something interesting to do. "What's yours?"

He frowned. "Tamlen."

Her grin widened. "Tamlen? That's strange. I always thought that 'Tamlen' was a girl's name!"

With an affronted sound, the boy's nervousness immediately turned to temper, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "It isn't!"

"I'm sure it is."

"Well I'm sure it isn't, seeing that _I_ am a _boy_ named Tamlen!"

As he glared and loudly proclaimed this, she managed to reach behind him fast enough that she grabbed what was in his hands and pulled it away. He let out a gasp, and she only just had time to realize that it was a packet full of dyes – the kind used mostly for painting pottery – before it burst in her too-tight grasp. Bright orange and vivid blue liquid exploded across her in a messy spray, coating her shirt and arms. Some of it got onto Tamlen, as well, though not nearly as much.

Lyna stared flabbergasted at her hands, which had been stained mottled orange and blue, and brown where they mixed.

Tamlen's eyes widened to the size of plates, and he gave her a frightened glance.

"Um," he said.

She couldn't help it, really. She was _covered in dye_, and he was just _staring_ at her, and it was all so unexpected and bizarre that a moment later she started laughing, the burst packets still clutched between her palms.

A moment after that, Tamlen snickered, and then wholeheartedly joined in, the both of them standing there and giggling like mad. Lyna felt the air cool the dye against her, sticky and itchy and stinking. "What were you doing with a packet of _dyes_?" she asked, as Tamlen reached over and sort of swiped at her arm, obviously trying to brush the dye off but only staining his fingers with it.

"I was…" he paused as a few more laughs overcame him. "I was just going to hide them from Alamric! It was supposed to be a joke!"

She smirked at him. "Well, it's still a joke, I think. Just a different kind."

He raised a hand, reflexively, to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. She caught his wrist and stopped him before he could use his dye-covered fingers to do it, and probably hurt himself. "Careful."

"Oh. Right. Ma serannes," he replied, blushing in embarrassment.

Of course, it wasn't long before the state of them caught attention. A male voice called towards them, and Tamlen suddenly shifted her grip on him, so that they were holding hands instead. "Quick! Before we get in trouble!" he advised, dragging her around to the other side of the aravel.

Internally, she was pretty certain that they were in trouble no matter what – they both had enough dye on them that they couldn't possibly hide it – but she let him drag her along anyway, weaving around aravels and avoiding adults until her legs started to protest her running, and she was too breathless to laugh anymore.

Poor Tamlen looked more distraught over the prospect of his fate. "My parents are going to kill me," he said with feeling, as they walked alongside one of the outer parts of the convoy, moving slowly to catch their breaths.

Lyna looked him over carefully. Most of the dye was on his skin – there were a few specks at the hem of his shirt, but she didn't think anyone would notice them if they weren't looking to find them. "We need water," she decided. "And soap."

Tamlen gave her a skeptical look. "This can't possibly wash out. It's _dye_," he replied.

She gave him a look, and then winked. "Still worth a try, right? If you can find the soap, I can find the water."

For a minute he just gave her a long, rather embarrassed stare. Then he shrugged and nodded, and with an agreement to find the same aravel again and meet back there, they both set off once more. Lyna ducked around two halla, weaving her way closer to the center of the convoy, and to tarps and halla she recognized. It was somewhat easier to avoid being seen in that most people were either distracted with one another, or the trip, or too tired to pay much notice, and most of the children were still running around and caught up in their games.

It still took longer than she thought it would to find Ilen's aravel, and then to sneak away with a full waterskin and retrace her steps back through the ever-shifting convoy.

She still managed to complete her task more quickly than Tamlen, however, who left her waiting in nervous impatience for almost an hour before he turned up again with a rough bar of soap. She grinned at him, dragging him into the trees at the edge of the convoy, letting the progression pass them for a while as she scrubbed at his arms and hands with the soap bar.

"This isn't going to work," he said, even as the dye started to come off, only to coat the soap rather thoroughly instead.

"Shh," she replied, pouring some water from the skin to wash most of it away, and then starting the process over again. By the time the soap bar had run out the both of them smelled of lime, and her hands and his arms hurt, but _most_ of the dye was gone from his skin, too. He still looked a little stained, though.

Lyna sighed and tied the empty waterskin to her belt. "Well. We tried."

Tamlen seemed a little more impressed. "You almost can't see it anymore," he said. "If I change to a long-sleeved tunic before anyone notices, it might actually work."

She grinned at him, not having thought of that, even as he turned to her and frowned.

"But what about you?"

Negligently, she waved him off. "It's alright. It was my fault to begin with, and I'm always getting into trouble anyway. I don't mind." Ashalle would probably make that disappointed face of hers, and loudly wonder how someone so small could cause so much wanton destruction, but that didn't bother her so much. Not enough to look the way Tamlen had when he'd though his parents might catch him, anyway.

It felt like the right choice when he looked at her like she was the most amazing person ever, too.

"I'll make it up to you," he promised. "My mother helped me fletch arrows to trade with when we get to the Arlathven. I'll trade for something pretty for you."

She couldn't help but smile at him for that.

* * *

The trees were burnt. The aravels were burnt. The ground was blackened to ash in large, barren patches, and arrows dotted the ground, next to still forms of rags and unrecognizable flesh. It was almost enough to make her regret following the scouts down through the southern forest, past the feet of the mountain and closer towards the shemlen settlements.

But she'd had to. Ralven Clan often traded with shems, and traveled through that area. They had many ties to her own clan.

They were Tamlen's clan.

She almost forgot herself, almost forgot that she had followed the scouts in secret, and she would have run straight out there to see if any of the crumpled forms was a blond-haired boy, not quite a man yet, with light blue eyes. But fear stopped her from running out, and also stopped her from giving herself away until she heard the scouts talking again.

"-must have gone north again," one of them said, voice quiet as she looked over the carnage spread before them. "There are only shemlen dead still here. That means they didn't get all of them, at least."

Relief crashed into her. It didn't mean Tamlen was still alive, but as she looked, she realized that all of the bodies were big, and oddly dressed. That they had Dalish arrows dotting their forms. It was more hopeful, at least, than the idea that the shems had slaughtered the whole clan.

She had heard stories about them doing that.

"We shouldn't stay. They'll come for their own dead, won't they?" one of the other scouts asked.

His fellow shrugged. "Who knows? But there isn't much reason to remain either way. We can say a prayer for the fallen when we find the rest of their clan."

They moved on after that. Lyna waited, let them get further away before she moved again, recalling the elder hunters' admonishments about stealth and patience in her training. She supposed they had never meant for her to use them to hunt their own scouts, but there it was. The smell on the air was the worst part, she decided, glancing back towards the fire-scorched clearing. If atrocity had a scent, she suspected she knew what it would be.

The scouts followed the small, hidden forest paths, and she followed the scouts, tracking them as best she could. Halfway through the day her efforts were impeded somewhat when it started to rain, the sky opening up and just pouring buckets down into the trees around them. It didn't take long for it to muddy the earth and soften the already-light tracks which the scouts left behind.

Needless to say, it drenched Lyna, as well, until she was chilled through to her bones and actually starting to regret her recklessness. A little.

It would be worth it once she found out what had happened to Tamlen.

By the time evening fell she was fully regretting it, as the rain hadn't let up – if anything, it had gotten worse – and so she hadn't been able to stop to eat or rest properly. The scouts would have brought gear for the weather, but she hadn't thought to. She hadn't thought of much except following them when the scouts reported the signs of fire from Ralven Clan's campsite, to find out what had happened. But as the light faded she lost their trail, and she thought she might have been very foolish.

In the end it was two of Ralven Clan's scouts who found her, a pair of stern-faced young men that held bows to her until she spoke up, and then their expressions softened a little. They were quiet as they guided her to their campsite, situated in a very small clearing, with the aravels cramped between trees and their numbers much diminished.

The scouts from her clan took over the duties of scolding her.

"_Da'len_," said Irthamel, who was family to Paivel and therefore permitted some kind of authority over her. "What were you thinking? What did you see?"

"Burnt forest and bodies," she replied, too numb to curb her tongue, and then she was wrapped up in a warm blanket and thrust towards the large fire, circled by several raised canopies. The rain tapped as it bounced off of them, and hissed when it hit the flames. "Tamlen," she remembered to ask, her teeth chattering as she grabbed Irthamel's arm. "My friend Tamlen should be here."

Irthamel sighed, prying her fingers away and making her sit. "Then I will find what has become of him," she promised. "Now get warm. If you take ill none of us will hear the end of it from Ashalle."

Lyna didn't need to be told twice to move closer to the warmth emanating from the fire. There were already several figures huddled around it, grim and silent with grief. She looked at their faces, but none were Tamlen, or his family.

When Irthamel came back, the look on her face made her heart sink into her chest.

No.

Since the Arlathven where she had befriended Tamlen, their clans had crossed paths once, and they had sent one another long letters between the craftsmen and wandering storytellers and scouts who sometimes moved between the elvhen. Ashalle had learned of it, and when she'd asked and Lyna had only reddened, mumbling about him being funnier than Mirrell or Maren, she had hugged her so tightly she thought she might stop breathing.

Because, really, it was obvious – and Tamlen couldn't be dead, because she didn't want him to be.

"He's alive," Irthamel said, and she remembered how to breathe. "His mother and father have crossed the veil with Falon'Din."

Lyna didn't know what to say to that. She thought she might go look for him, but Irthamel told her not to, and so instead she simply huddled to the fire until she was guided to one of the bigger tents to sleep. Then she stayed up half of the night, listening to the rain.

Her own mother and father had died before she could recall. No one spoke of it, though she tended to imagine it like an accident, as if they had been walking along the forest paths and then simply tripped and fallen through the veil one day. It was probably because of how it had been described to her when she was small. So even though she was motherless and fatherless, she didn't know how to relate to the loss of a mother and father.

She tried to imagine what it would feel like if Ashalle died, and her chest ached.

"Da'len," Irthamel whispered to her, surprising her away from her thoughts, voice quiet in the still of the tent as the scout leaned over. "Listen to me. This clan is much diminished. When we send word of what has happened, it's likely they will come with us back to the mountains."

It took her a few moments to absorb what was being said. "They'll join our clan?" she whispered back.

"I believe so," Irthamel agreed. "Some will go to other clans, where they have more friends or kin. But what I mean to say is that if this Tamlen of yours is so important, do not worry. You will have time to help him rise from his sorrows."

The thought was comforting, and also a little terrifying. "I know very little about sorrows," she admitted, surprised to feel tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.

In the dark, Irthamel smiled. "Just stay his friend," she said. "That will be enough."

* * *

"Ow. Ow, ow, ow," Tamlen chanted, spread out on his back in the clear span of earth next to the halla pen, off-white bandages wrapped tightly around his face. Lyna smirked at him and lay down next to him, unbothered even if she smelled like she'd just dragged a fresh kill into camp. Which she had.

"Are you sure you're an adult?" she asked. "I mean you're making _a lot_ of noise."

Reaching over, Tamlen jabbed her in the arm with his index finger, and she snickered again. "You only have to be quiet _during_ the blood writing. Afterwards is fair game, and you know it, or did I just imagine you whining like a little girl when this was _you?_" he asked, before closing his eyes and letting out a hiss.

She turned her head towards him. "Imagined it. You definitely imagined it."

"Liar."

"Wimp."

Tamlen wrinkled his nose. "Did you come here before washing? You smell like the wrong side of a boar."

She raised her arm, wafting it rather pointedly until he snorted and caught her wrist. "I'll have you know that this stink is the stink of a job well done."

He rolled his eyes. "Killed something, did you?"

"Mhmm. You stick with me, lethallin, and you will never go hungry."

That got her another jab in the arm. "I'm a fairly decent hunter too, you know," he pointed out a little petulantly, although the tone was far from serious. Still, she tried to wrestle her wrist out of his grasp – just for the point of it – and jabbed him back, until he finally relented and let her go. "So what did you bring down this time?" he asked, raising his hands to tug lightly at the corners of his bandages.

"A buck," she replied. "It had eight points. Master Ilen promised to craft me something from the antlers." Turning a little, she took a closer look at his face. The swelling had gone down, by the looks of it, but she knew he was still miserable enough and too distracted by it to do any of the things that normally held his interest.

"Eight points. Ha. I'll top that by the end of the week," he assured her.

"Oh really?" she asked, curving an eyebrow at him. "Well, I didn't just bring down the buck, you know." Lifting herself up a little, she rested her chin on her palm and regarded him solemnly. "There was a wild drake with his eye on it as well. I had to fight it off, first."

Tamlen sighed mightily and rolled his eyes. "A drake. And let me guess, it had two heads and eighteen rows of teeth?"

"Don't be ridiculous. There were _twenty _rows of teeth."

"Hmm."

"Not to mention the claws. A dozen, three on each foot, and every one of them sharper than a Dar'Misaan – I almost lost my head!"

"Little did the drake know that you have _already_ lost your mind, so it wouldn't have been a great injury for you."

Dramatically, she raised a hand up to her chest. "You wound me, lethallin! Here I am fighting off horrible monsters-"

"Horribly _imagined_ monsters, you mean."

"_-Horrible monsters_, and risking my very life so that I might bring back a worthy meal to ease your suffering, and the only gratitude I receive is mockery." She sniffed rather forlornly for emphasis.

He sighed heavily and turned towards her at that, staring at her from beneath all of the gauze. "Fine. Thank you for hunting today, lethallan," he told her, and she beamed at him in return, only noticing a few seconds later how close their faces had become. Any closer and their noses would be touching.

Her breath caught, and she saw the moment when he realized it to, his shoulders going rather abruptly still. Her heart pounded in her chest, like it wanted to burst out of her ribcage and into his, and she knew she must have gone a little wide-eyed.

The sound of a throat clearing had them both jump in surprise.

Maren was standing by the circle of the halla pen, arms folded over her chest and looking like she was doing a poor job of fighting back a smile. "Not in front of the halla, you two. Don't you know these are pure and sacred animals?" she asked, a teasing tone to her voice.

"Maren!" Lyna protested, feeling her cheeks heat up. Tamlen groaned and flopped down again, so that he was lying spread-eagle on the grass, wincing as the careless act pulled against his bandages.

"Halla. Blood writing. I think I might hate sacred things," he muttered jokingly.

* * *

Lyna hadn't even realized that she'd started a fight until the young warrior took a swing at her head.

She ducked underneath it, of course, eyes wide with surprise as the inebriated youth made another attempt, and wound up with Tamlen's fist in his mouth instead. There was a solid _thwack_ and then a kind of sickening ripping noise as his teeth broke the flesh on the back of Tamlen's hand, bloodying it before the warrior staggered back, spitting and cursing.

Of course, his own friends took offense to that, once they recovered from their surprise.

She tackled the first one as he made to hit Tamlen from behind, grabbing him by the waist and flinging him around to the other side of the fire. The sounds of a scuffle from behind let her know that the others had moved, and she caught a punch aimed at her jaw before knocking her assailant soundly on the head, and turning to check on Tamlen again. The first warrior had recovered enough to try and kick his knees out from under him, while his third friend had succeeded in grabbing both of his arms.

It felt like she bruised her fist when she smashed it against his cheek in retaliation, freeing Tamlen but losing her balance in the process. Her feet scuffed the earth, her senses still a little fuzzy from her own drinking, but not so much that she failed to notice the kick before it impacted her gut.

The wind got knocked out of her, and she grasped the offending leg, swinging around and sending the warrior sprawling towards the campfire. Which was right about when she realized that she was going to pitch him head-first into the flames, and changed her trajectory.

Well, it wasn't like she wanted to permanently _maim_ him. She wasn't even sure why they were fighting one another.

He wound up putting his arm in the fire instead, which was better but still bad, and right about when he started howling Tamlen knocked out a couple of his friend's teeth, grabbed Lyna by the arm, and dragged her towards the tree line.

"Get to your tent," he hissed, breath smelling like wine.

"What about you?"

Turning a little, he gave her a slight push. "I've got this one. Just go," he encouraged. She hesitated, but after a moment decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and moved through the shadows along the edge of camp until she reached Ashalle's tent. Then she climbed in through the back, a little dizzy and her stomach still throbbing from that stupid kick.

Ashalle stirred in her sleep, turning over and then sitting up.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

Lyna rolled her eyes in the dark, dropping to her hands and knees and patting the floor until she found her bedroll. "I was with Tamlen," she replied.

There was a moment of oddly heavy silence.

"What were you two doing?" Ashalle then asked, her voice tense and surprisingly awake, and Lyna let out an internal curse, because how did she _always_ know when she'd done something wrong?

"…Nothing?" she tried.

A moment later there was a distinct rustling as Ashalle – to her surprise – got up, and briskly checked her over, looking at her closely for some reason. "You two didn't…" she trailed off, and then sighed. "I know you are an adult now, da'len," and that was rather contradictory, calling her an adult _and_ a child in the same breath, "but you must be patient. There are ceremonies that should be observed, promises that should be exchanged before the gods before such things happen."

Lyna drew a blank for about two solid minutes.

Then she figured it out, and lowered her face into her hands with a muttered oath. "_Ashalle_, we did not do _that,_" she protested.

Her assertion was greeted with a rather skeptical sound. "I was not born yesterday, da'len. Your clothes are rumpled and the hour is late."

Pulling away, Lyna pointedly yanked off her boots and climbed into her bedroll. "We were just drinking and talking, Ashalle, that's all. Tamlen hasn't even… we've not so much as _spoken_ of such things. Do you honestly trust me so little?" she couldn't help but wonder.

Her guardian sighed, dropping her hands to her sides before making her way back to her own sleeping place. "I trust you, da'len," she said, and Lyna knew she'd hit the right note. "But I also know how reckless youth and fondness can make a person. It may feel like there is some urgent need to your feelings, but if they are true then time will not change them. Patience was the virtue of our people in ancient times, and it is a path we must attempt to walk even when the stirrings of our hearts or bodies seem to compel us against it…"

Grabbing one of her blankets, Lyna pointedly balled it up, and then pressed it over her head to block out the rest of the lecture.

* * *

When she woke the next morning, she stared at the inside wall of the tent for several long, quiet minutes. Ashalle was still asleep, and her gentle snores filled up the air. She wondered if Tamlen had gotten in trouble for the fight she had – sort of – started.

Then she heard Ashalle's voice from the night before, reciting about feelings and urgings into her skull, and she let out a sigh. The trouble was that she _knew_ she had such impulses towards Tamlen. She was also fairly certain that he had them, too, and was aware of hers, but there was always this sense that they should wait for something.

She wasn't even sure _what_. They were both adults. They were both accomplished hunters. For all of their lives the elders had been filling their ears with caution and patience, and yet, why so ardently? It was true that there was no hurry, but it was also true that there was no point in waiting without a reason to, as well. She felt like she was crouched within the undergrowth, quarry in her sights, bow notched, and no reason to stay frozen in place any longer.

With a slight frown, she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Well. That was just foolish. One should either take the shot or else return to camp.

Right?

Right. Whatever Tamlen was doing that day, she decided, she'd go with him. She was supposed to be doing chores at the craftsmen's hut, but she could probably bribe Fenarel into doing them for her. Then she and Tamlen could… speak, at least.

It was with a sense of anticipation that she rose and dressed for the day.


	2. Kallian Tabris

"_I would say the world has far more use of those who know how to stay their blades."_

Back when her father's hair had been more red than grey, and her mother's smile still woke her up every morning, the alienage had seemed the very opposite of a bad place to be.

It had been safety. It had been home. It had been, in truth, the only place she had ever known, and she had been its princess. Roaming the leaky rooftops and dirt roads with her cousins in tow, clambering all over the vhendahl, getting knots in her hair and letting Shianni goad her into reaching for higher branches.

Well, until the elder had come and ordered them down, always a mix of fondness in his exasperation. She had been fearless. Young, fearless, and hopelessly naïve – trusting to a fault.

"We're always getting into trouble," Soris had complained, though whether he was directing the comment as a complaint towards them, himself, or the elder was anyone's guess. Looking over at his sister, he had sighed. "Shianni, you ripped your skirt."

She had blinked and looked down at the garment in question, Kallian following her stare. "No I haven't. It's just some dirt," she argued, but when the brushed at it, one of the patches flapped loose and proved Soris right. It made her sigh. "Great. Mama's going to make me stitch it, now, I just know it."

Kallian shrugged. "I don't see why she won't let you wear pants. They're much harder to rip," she reasoned, which had earned her a glare.

"Stop gloating," Shianni replied. "Not everyone's mother lets them run around pretending to be a _boy_."

With a snort Kallian pulled on one of the other girl's braids, earning a brief squeak of protest. "Jealous," she had accused.

Shianni reached over to try and pull her own hair, and she'd caught her hands, holding her back and laughing as the other girl put her full weight behind the reach. It left her leaning on her tip-toes, supported only by Kallian's arms she held her up, fingers wriggling towards her hair. After a moment, she looked down with a puff of laughter.

"If I let go you'll fall down."

"I'll crash into you on the way," Shianni countered, until Soris had, with a smile, pulled her back and properly onto her feet again. She had reached out to tag him on the shoulder after that, and then the three of them were off, racing through the alienage square and laughing until their mothers began to call them in.

They'd wound up eating altogether that evening, Shianni and Soris' parents sitting around the table along with Kallian's in their house, which was the bigger of the two. It happened that way often enough, and Soris had been sent to fetch extra chairs from next door, before leaving the front entrance open to let in the summer air. The sounds of the street and the breeze had filtered through, drying her hands once she'd washed up and playing with her cousin's hair as Shianni's mother lamented her skirt.

"You should just let her wear pants," her own mother had advised, which made both girls look at one another, and then burst into giggles.

Their fathers had shared amused looks as well, and the talk over the dinner table had mostly been about how daughters were _supposed_ to be more well-behaved than sons, but clearly, where their family was concerned, the Maker had a sense of humour.

The sun had stayed high in the sky even after the meal was done, and Kallian and Soris were made to clean the dishes, Shianni heading home with her mother and father to mend the rip in her skirt. While her own parents had engaged in disgusting displays of affection with one another, she had flicked water at her cousin, and then asked to go out and play again when they were done.

"Alright," her father had agreed. "But as soon as the soon goes down it's back inside and to bed with the both of you. And don't go far!"

With an absent nod Kallian had taken Soris by the hand, and tugged him out through the door behind her. "C'mon," she had said, fetching two sticks from the dirt by the exterior wall. "I'll show you how to fight, just like Mama shows me."

"Alright," Soris had agreed, accepting one of the sticks from her, and then she'd proceeded to chase him around the house, laughing and not giving much of a lesson at all.

Back then, 'not going far' had basically encompassed all of the houses around the alienage square, and the alleys behind them, and the rooftops that could be reached by climbing over old crates and gutters, and pretty much anywhere that didn't take them down the main road to the gates. They had run until the sky was streaked with blue and purple, and then the both of them had stopped, out of breath and laughing as they half-heartedly clashed their sticks together.

"Is that what fighting's really like?" Soris had asked.

She had grinned and shrugged, leaning against the wall behind them. "Real fighting's much harder," she said, authoritative and filled with over-confidence.

That was when the elf approached them.

He was young and clean-cut – handsome, even – with finer clothes than either of them were used to seeing, and he emerged in the little side-street like a ghost who had been summoned there. His hair was slicked-back and he smelled like fancy oils, and when he saw them, he'd smiled.

"Hello, children," he'd greeted, voice pleasant and light. "Gone and lost your way?"

Kallian had glanced at Soris, and then shrugged and shaken her head. "No, ser. We were just going home," she'd replied, curious about the uncommonly wealthy figure, with his uncommonly fine accoutrements and his uncommonly bright, straight, neatly-ordered teeth. They drew her eye as his smile broadened a little.

"Going home, hmm?" he'd asked, stepping into the side street. His gaze had flitted over the both of them, narrowing a little, as if he was looking for something. "Tsk. You haven't run away from the orphanage, have you?" he'd asked them then.

Soris reached out, taking her hand and shifting a little. His fingers had been tight and sweaty against her palm. "No, ser," she repeated.

He leaned down in front of them, still all smiles. "There's no need to lie," he told them. "I happen to like children very much. If the two of you did happen to be orphans, I'm certain I could help you."

Kallian shook her head. "But we're not." In part she had felt a little bit embarrassed, as if she and Soris had made some mistake by keeping both their parents, but she had also felt like there was something very strange. Off. It was a creepy little feeling that made her hairs stand on end, and it only magnified when the man reached out, chucking her under her chin.

"Now-" he'd began, before a voice had cut him off.

"Get away from my little ones."

She had looked up, then, and felt a surge of surprise and relief to see her mother standing there. Her expression had been uncommonly hard as the wealthy man had straightened, the smile falling off of his face.

"Of course," he had said, looking her up and down before he raised his hands a little. "Of course, I meant no harm. My apologies." On that note he had stalked away, his pace brisk, and then Kallian's mother had ducked down the street and scooped herself and Soris up into her arms.

She had held them unusually tight, for some reason.

* * *

"Alright, Kallie," her mother said, tapping her knee lightly to get her to adjust her stance. "Let's try this again."

Kallian nodded, sucking in a breath as her mother strode until she was standing across from her. For a few seconds she held herself tightly, wound up like a viper, just standing across from her and letting the expectation build. Then she struck out, quick and hard. There was a rush of fear and anticipation as the blow flew towards her, and Kallian met it, wooden practice swords ringing through the air of the alienage square. The first attack was followed swiftly by a second, and then a third, and in her haste to meet them she lost track of her footing again, stumbling a little and feeling her muscles protest the calamity.

The next thing she knew, she was blinking up at the sky. There was a sharp sting against her hip, and her temper started to flare, fueled by pain and frustration.

She sat up, and her mother extended a hand towards her. Her expression didn't quite hide her disappointment.

"Again," Kallian reasoned once she was on her feet.

"No," her mother replied, smiling in a consoling fashion and clasping her shoulder. "You're too worked up. You'll never get it now – we'll start over tomorrow."

"But I'll do it this time!" she argued, shrugging herself free. They'd stopped before she got it yesterday, and she wasn't going to head home again with her mother looking disappointed because she was just being _incompetent._ If they kept at it…

Her mother gave her a Look. "_Kallian_. You've lost your head for it," she said definitively.

Kallian scowled.

With a sigh, her mother took in the dissatisfaction on her face, and then grasped her shoulder again. Softening a little. "Fighting's no good for you if you can't keep focus," she explained for the millionth time. It made her want to role her eyes.

"How do you know I'm not just a different kind of fighter?" she countered. "Maybe I'm _better_ when I'm worked up." It was a weak argument and she knew it, but even though she was supposed to, she didn't really want to let go of the anger working its way up into her system. She wanted to lash out, to go back to practicing instead.

"But you're not," her mother insisted, staring down into her face, searching her eyes. "Listen to me, young lady. You are a woman. You are an elf. If you are ever to be attacked, then the chances are very good that whoever attacks you will be bigger and stronger and a _lot_ nastier than you are."

It was in her to protest, but she couldn't even think of a halfway decent argument for it. Kallian sighed. "I know," she settled for sullenly replying.

"You don't," her mother assured her. "And I pray you never do. But if it happens, the best defense you have is what's in your head, not brute strength." After a second she tightened her grip a little, and then let her go. "So. We stop now, and start up again tomorrow."

With only the barest looks of displeasure, Kallian assented.

She'd get it tomorrow, though. She would have to, or else she'd probably wind up breaking her fist on the nearest wall.

* * *

Teela had long, golden braids that flew around her head like a wild mane, and one of those wide, friendly mouths that seemed to swallow up her whole face when she laughed. And she laughed a lot, Kallian had noticed. When she was happy. When she was nervous. When she just plain didn't seem to know what to say.

It could have been a rather annoying trait.

"Why do you always look at her?" Shianni asked, glancing up from the laundry bin to follow her gaze.

Kallian tore her eyes away, looking swiftly back down at her work. "I don't," she denied, scrubbing furiously and avoiding her gaze.

"Yes you do," Shianni insisted. "You're always staring at her. Come on, tell me what it is. Do you know some secret or something?" she asked, nudging her with her elbow and almost spilling suds over the side of the barrel.

"No," she denied. "I just… I don't know. There isn't any reason."

Her cousin gave her a skeptical look, but eventually let the matter drop. After a few minutes had passed, and they were both absorbed in their chores again, she dared to dart another glance in Teela's direction.

As expected, she was smiling.

Slightly unexpected, however, was the way she glanced in her direction right then. Kallian froze, and Teela paused, her mouth shifting from a grin into brief 'o' of surprise, before going back again. Her eyes actually seemed to light up a little, and she half raised one hand in a hesitant wave.

The heat surged into her cheeks, and before she stopped herself she lifted her own hand to return the gesture. A mess of suds drifted down her arm, almost catching Shianni's hair. She raised an eyebrow at her, and Kallian abruptly lowered her hand again, choking on her own embarrassment.

"…Er…"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" her cousin asked, utterly baffled. A ways away, Teela laughed, the sound carrying through the summer air.

"_Nothing,"_ Kallian insisted, even as Shianni pulled her own arms free and wiped them off.

"Fine," the other girl said. "That's it. I'm going over there and talking to her."

She barely had the presence of mind to stop herself from reaching out and grabbing her cousin by the arm. "Shianni, don't."

"Well _you're_ not telling me what's going on!" she insisted. "I mean, you _used_ to tell me everything, but now all of a sudden there's this weird thing with you and Teela and you've just clammed up. What am I supposed to do?"

"Don't do anything," she replied. "Please, Shianni, I just…" nervously, she shot a glance around them, at the girls who had gathered to chat and do laundry, most caught up in their work and the brightness of the day. "I'll tell you later, okay?" she promised.

After a moment, her cousin relented.

"Alright," she agreed, sighing. Then she leveled a finger at her nose. "But you better not back out!"

She was about to reply to that when a murmur started up among the other women. Heads started to turn towards the mouth of the work yard. It wasn't difficult to give in to the distraction, following the stares up to where the light hit the alienage buildings. She blinked, feeling momentarily perplexed.

Her father was standing there.

He was with Hahren Valendrian, which was beyond strange, because men and women split their washing onto different days. For obvious reasons. But the two of them were standing there just the same, obviously intentionally – and something about their expressions made her blood turn cold.

* * *

It was the dead of night, it was windy, it was raining, and no one with any sense at all had any business being out in the alienage square.

Kallian sat on the edge of the wooden public stage, trying to remember what she was doing there. She had been in bed for a while, she knew. A long while – since her mother's funeral. Her father had tried to coax her out, but his heart hadn't been in it, and it had seemed so much easier to simply lie there than try and move.

She didn't know what to do. In the mornings her mother always woke her for practice, but her mother wasn't there anymore. So there was no practice, so there was no reason to wake up.

But… she'd wanted to see the stars.

Yes, that was it. She'd woken up and realized that it was nighttime, and the thought had taken her that she should go and look at the stars. But then she'd gotten out here, to the best spot for it, and it was raining instead. Sheets and sheets. She was soaked through, so it was rather cold, but not as bad it could have been. The wind raced past her ears, pelting her face with tiny raindrops and making her close her eyes.

If her mother could see her, she would probably tell her to stop being an idiot and go back inside. She'd tell her that even on a night like this the streets were rife with unsavoury types, and that she was going to get sick, and that she wasn't doing anybody _any_ good by sitting out in the rain.

But for some reason, she didn't move for a long while. Not until her arms had gone numb, and the wind had quieted down, and she felt oddly like sleeping again. Then she'd trekked softly back into the house, stripping off her wet clothes for a dry nightgown and sliding, shivering, back under the covers. The thin fabric clung against her, but even so she went out like a light after that. Dreamless, heavy sleep swallowing her up, burying her in a relieving sort of blankness.

She slept the whole night through, and when she woke up the sky was grey and damp but clear. She nestled back down into the covers, feeling miserable for herself, and stayed put until she heard the banging on the door.

It went on for a while before the floorboards creaked, and she knew her father had gone to answer it.

"Cyrion! Cyrion, it's the guard. They said they've come to arrest the elves responsible for the brawling in the city!" she heard her aunt's voice saying through the wood, still pounding at the door. Morning air drifted through the house as her father finally unlatched it.

"What?" he asked, voice raspy from sleep and grief.

Her aunt hastily continued. "They're saying that more than one elf was responsible, even though Adaia... Valendrian's talking to them, but they're asking for everyone who was in the market that day! What are we supposed to do? What if they take Soris? He was working there!"

"Calm down," she heard her father reply, though his voice didn't sound any surer than her aunt's. "I'll… we'll…. Valendrian will think of something," he finally settled upon.

Kallian swallowed, throat scratching like sandpaper. She looked at the wall by her head. What if they took Soris? What if they did? What if the shems decided that her whole family had to get hauled away, lined up on a stage and then hung like criminals?

At least they'd all get to go together.

But what if they _just_ took Soris?

She knew what her mother would say. That they were being ridiculous. That if they were going to drag every elf who _happened_ to be in the market place through the mud then why not the district next to the market place? Or the elves working in the manners nearby? Or the whole alienage – and how well would the city manage when there was no one to cook or clean or do the jobs the shems were too proud to bother with?

If she was there, that would be what she would say. Right into the guard's face. She wouldn't let them take her cousin, never.

Her father's voice reached her ears again. "I'll get my things. Don't worry, they won't take Soris," he said, with far too much uncertainty. More than her mother ever would have shown.

Sitting up, Kallian knocked the blankets back off of herself. Her head swam a little bit for a few seconds, dizzy from the sudden movement, and she felt that vile taste at the back of her throat that let her know she would be ill soon. She coughed it back, getting to her feet and straightening herself out. Washing her face, dressing, doing what she normally did on any given morning, before she strode into the next room and then out through the front door.

The guards were easy to spot, standing almost a head taller than anyone else and dressed in their clanking chainmail. Half of their numbers were clustered nearby, along with several families who were a little less familiar, and of course, Hahren Valendrian, who had his arms extended in the universal gesture of 'everyone calm down'.

It didn't seem to be having the desired effect.

"All we need is the names of the elves who were in the market district five days ago," the guard captain said. "We'll not take all of them, we just need to ask them some questions."

"You won't get any answers that you haven't already received," Valendrian assured him. "Please, my good sers, we ourselves are still recovering from that tragedy. There is nothing more to be done for it."

"That's not what the arl has decreed," the guard insisted. Kallian kept walking until she was standing in front of them, passing her father, who noted her presence only just in time to try and catch her arm. He missed.

She looked at them, and she felt hate like she had never felt it before. Hot. Burning. Strong enough to make her see red, and make her oblivious to anything else around her. Like fire in her veins.

"Are you the shems who killed my mother?" she asked, her voice sounding strange in her own ears as she strode until she was standing even with the elder. There were a few shocked breaths, but she barely heard them, and almost didn't notice as her father caught up with her and successfully grabbed hold of her. The men stared out from underneath the rims of their helmets, and it was clear she'd surprised them. Not to mention everyone else. "Are you?" she demanded again, ignoring her father's attempts to hush her.

"Kallian, child…" Valendrian tried.

"_Are you?"_ she demanded again, struggling against the arms which circled her like a vice. "Are you some of the _filthy shem bastards _who _killed my mother?_ Think you're big, tough men, ganging up on one lone elf woman like that?"

"_Kallian!"_ her father tried, and she elbowed him in the gut for his trouble.

"How many of you did she kill before you slaughtered her? How many did she bring down, so that you had to go and make up a story about a whole gang of elves, so that you don't have to tell your lord that you were beaten by _one elf woman?"_

She was still shrieking her questions at them as the murmur started to move through the crowd, beginning to turn angry.

"How many more of us are you going to kill _today_, you monsters?"

Later, she would never be able to tell where the first rock had come from. She remembered seeing an older man throw the second, and at some point Soris and Teela and Shianni had joined in, standing further back amidst the crowd as the rocks turned more plentiful, and the guard drew their swords. Pandemonium exploded like wildfire in the alienage. Elves were throwing things, and Valendrian's calls for calm were going ignored as her father kept trying to pull her back.

A young man charged at the guards, attempting to wrench one of their swords away.

They ran him through. He bent at a strange angle, eyes wide and crimson staining the back of his shirt, where the tip of the sword protruded. She stared. Stared and stared and stared as he fell in a heap of blood and screaming, and then there were more elves charging forward, and it hit her all in a rush.

Horror.

Her mother had always told her to think, and ever since she'd died she had stopped thinking altogether. She hadn't thought about what shouting at the guards would do. She had acted with her blood, not her brain, and all of the ripples of chaos were spreading around her.

That death was _her_ fault.

And so were the ten others that followed, as the answer to her question was, come evening, 'eleven'.

* * *

She woke up at the crack of dawn, grabbed her practice sword, and headed out for the alienage square – like every morning. The air was still and quiet around her as she began to go through her exercises, using an old plank as a dummy, and constantly trying to think of ways to keep herself on her toes. It was harder to do without a partner – kind of like dancing, actually – but she did her best. The dry grass crunched beneath her boots as she turned, ran, tipped, tilted, and probably did other things that made her look a little crazy when she was doing them alone. Or possibly just ridiculous.

By the time she finished her skin was filmed with sweat, and there was a pleasant buzz in her head from the exertion.

When she closed her eyes, she saw a young elf, the tip of a sword protruding from his back.

"Why do you do this every morning?"

The voice caught her by surprise, and she jerked her eyes open again, just stopping herself from whirling around. When she actually did turn – at something closer to a reasonable pace – she saw Teela standing there, leaning against the vhenedahl. Her hair was loose, and she was dressed in a servant's work clothes, head tilted to one side.

Kallian shifted a little, shrugging her shoulders back and then just shrugging again. "Well, um," she replied. "If I don't practice I'll lose my skills."

The other girl shifted a little, considering. "Is it hard?" she asked. "It looks tiring."

"A… a little. But," she hastened to explain. "Once you get used to it then it's actually not a bad way to start a day. You'd think it would tire me out, but it's actually kind of… refreshing."

Teela smiled. "Well, you're good at it," she complimented, taking a few hesitant steps forward. "I mean, I wouldn't _know_, I suppose…" With a shrug she trailed off, and Kallian coughed into her hand, trying to keep a handle on her nerves. The other girl probably wouldn't… wasn't… after all… so, she told herself, it would probably be a good idea to just use it as a test. Try and keep herself sensible even when she was a little addled.

"Thanks," she replied.

Teela's cheeks pinked, and she threaded her hands together, finally looking away again. "I wanted to say… about – well, your mother… and everything…"

Kallian stiffened. It had been a few years, now, but she still got condolences – which only ever seemed to cut open old wounds. Remind her fiercely that they existed.

But the other girl soldiered on. "I'd have been mad too, in your place," she declared, suddenly looking very sincere. "Everyone thinks you come out here in the mornings because you're planning to attack the city guard. That you want to get revenge."

Wait.

What?

She frowned as Teela, opening her mouth but not managing to get a word out before she was cut off. "It's common knowledge there's always more shems. They're like… really tall rabbits, or something. Even if you were good enough to kill the whole guard then you'd just wind up dead, anyway, and it's not like it would be even worth it because you can't kill all the evil in the world. It just wouldn't work."

Frowning, then, Teela took another step forward, until they were standing right across from one another. Kallian was pretty sure she stank of sweat, but moving away right then would have been a little conspicuous. "If you attack the guard then they'll only send more men into the alienage. There'll be riots, and they'll probably try and drive us out of the city, and… and you'll just be dead. Nothing good will happen." Her cheeks were still pink – a very pretty, rosy colour – as she looked at her in utter seriousness. "So – you should stop," she concluded. "Even if that's not what you're planning, you don't want people to think you're a trouble-maker."

Ha. Trust her to like a girl who sounded like her _father_, of all people. Maker, she was so bizarre on so very many levels, it was probably a curse.

But was that really what people thought?

After a few seconds, Kallian found her voice again.

"It's not what I'm planning," she said.

Teela's shoulders relaxed a little. "Oh good," she replied.

"I… I just…" Finding the words to explain it out loud was fairly difficult. Her father had understood, more or less, without her needing to tell him. Or at least, he'd been happy enough that she'd returned to something resembling 'normal', and if that involved daily combat practice, well, so be it. Soris and Shianni were much the same. "I have to get it right," she finally settled on.

It was probably a kind of confusing sentiment to settle on. Teela's expression said as much. "Get what right?" she asked, folding her arms, and Kallian could kind of smell the fresh soap she must have used that morning.

Lifting a hand, she scratched a little at the back of her head and averted her gaze. "Everything," she admitted. "I have to be able to keep my head. That was why – that was…" words failed her, and she cleared her throat a little. "My mother used to train me. She always said my big weakness was that I couldn't keep focus," she settled on instead. "I wanted to keep practicing, so that I could fix that. So that I don't lose control and do stupid things anymore."

Saying it out loud, she supposed, it _did_ sound kind of strange.

"Oh," Teela replied, and a sort of awkward silence drifted up between them at that. Kallian shifted on the balls of her feet, wondering if she should make some excuse and leave. Maybe. "Is it working?" the other girl finally asked.

She looked back at her, then, and shrugged. "I think so. Kind of."

"That's… that's good."

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

"Me too."

They stared at one another, and then both away again. Teela's face heated up a little more, and as if she'd suddenly realized how close they were standing, she took another step back.

"Um. Well, I…"

"Oh. Right. Of course, yeah, no it's – it's getting on. In the, uh, morning."

"Yes. Work is waiting."

"Absolutely."

"Time doesn't stop for conversation." She raised her hands, waving a little, and then winced as she apparently decided that wasn't the smoothest thing to say. "That… that was truly awful."

Kallian laughed. "It wasn't so bad," she disagreed. "Though it did kind of sound like you were quoting your grandmother."

"_I was,"_ Teela replied, pulling a face. Then she waved her hands again, as if she was trying to clear the words out of the air. "Pretend I didn't say that," she asked. "Let's just – you know what? We should be friends."

For some reason, the comment made the colour rise in her own face. She blinked. "Friends?"

"Yes. We'd be good friends, I think." Underneath her blonde mane Teela was practically the colour of a cherry tomato.

"…Yeah," she agreed after another awkward minute. "I think so too."

It earned her a smile.

* * *

"I'll bolt," Soris said, talking out of the side of his mouth as the other half was full of nails, breathing out heavily through his nose as she handed him up the roofing planks. The leak had been giving them trouble for weeks, and her father had finally brought home enough materials to do something about it.

"You won't bolt," she assured him, still clad in her practice clothes and staring up at his perch. "You'd never survive without someone to remind you what day it is."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Anytime, cousin."

He paused for another moment, as the din of the hammer would have drowned out his voice, and she took the opportunity to double-check the ladder they'd borrowed. It looked like it was barely clinging to life. Well, life as anything more than a large pile of tinder.

"You could escape with me," he offered, pulling another nail from between his lips, and then hammering it in as well. "I heard your father's been shopping around for a husband for you."

She felt a little coil of dread settle into her gut, threatening her temper. It had only been a few months since Teela's parents arranged _her _marriage for her, sending her off to Highever. The idea that she was next… as she handed her cousin another plank, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. "Well, of course he has," she replied. "I'm the same age as you, after all. Anyway. Where would we even escape _to?_"

Soris grinned, and then winced as he probably jabbed his tongue against a nail by accident. It was an expression she'd become fairly well acquainted with. "We could always head for the wilds and try to find the Dalish," he suggested. "You'd probably get along well with them."

She rolled her eyes. "You think I'd get along with a pack of wild bandits? Wow. I never knew you thought so highly of me."

He laughed, and had to catch the nails in his hand.

"Alright," she said. "Don't put those back in there. That's a fatal accident waiting to happen."

"It's fine."

"No it isn't. At this rate you're going to swallow one, and then I'll have to explain to your bride-to-be why her husband's kisses are permanently rust-flavoured." She considered, tilting her head. "Or maybe why his throat is full of perforations."

"Ha ha." He made a face down at her, but after a few seconds, obligingly put the nails into his breast pocket instead. As he did he leaned a little heavily against his side, and the gutter gave a somewhat ominous 'creak'.

Both of them paused.

"You know, at this rate, I think falling to my death is a little more likely," Soris joked.

At which point, the ladder promptly decided that it was fair time for it to shuffle off of the mortal coil, because it gave a sudden, unexpected groan, and then a sharp _crack_, and Kallian could really only watch as Soris was forced to cling to the gutter as the whole thing came apart.

Then the gutter went down, too, and her cousin at least at the presence of mind to let go of it before the whole thing tore completely off. He landed on his back with a solid 'oomph', little bits of dirt and leaves raining down on him.

"Soris!"

Kallian knelt down by him, but he was already gingerly picking himself back up again.

"Huh," he said, wincing as he shifted his shoulders a little, reaching towards the back of his skull. "So it's true. The Maker really does hate me."

She found herself letting out a breath of relief. At least he wasn't too hurt to make jokes, then.

"Well, look on the bright side," she advised, helping him back up and still fighting back the surge of fear she'd felt. "At least you didn't still have the nails in your mouth."

* * *

The plan started out as all of them getting uproariously drunk in celebration of Soris' impending doom, but somewhere between concept and enactment, it instead transformed into Shianni getting uproariously drunk while Kallian got her other cousin to take deep, calming breaths.

"It's not going to be that bad," she assured him as he rested his head in his hands.

"You don't understand," he replied. "My parents didn't really keep that much for my match. All anyone will tell me about her is what a _great personality_ she has." Looking up, he turned to her with a near-anguished expression, face pale. "You're going to marry the best guy your father's money can afford. I'm marrying a girl with a _great personality._"

Kallian sighed, reaching over to pat him on the back.

"Well," she reasoned. "We could always trade."

The laughing, at least, seemed to cheer him up a little bit.


	3. Alim Surana

"_Keep your wits about you, mage. Because true tests… never end."_

When the templars came for him, he was small and ragged, tied with twine to the fence just outside of town and utterly exhausted. He hadn't meant to do anything bad. But the lady had been screaming so loudly, and there'd been ice all over the floor, and the little grey mouse which had frightened her in the first place had been cold and dead. He was very confused on what had happened, and why Gran had then dragged him out there and tied him up, and told him to stay put with that look on her face, as if he'd done something terribly bad.

It was starting to get cold and dark.

The men who approached came in a pair. They were quiet and inscrutable behind their metal helms. He recognized them from the few times Gran had taken him to the Chantry to pray for his parents, although he couldn't remember what they were called. When they cut him loose from the fence he was afraid they meant to slice his arm off, and then they just grabbed him up and tossed him into the back of the wagon.

The trip to the tower was long and terrifying. He was too scared to say much of anything, especially when most of his questions just earned him a stony silence. The templars spoke to one another, but not to him. At least they fed him as they dragged him along, complaining about elves and the road and talking about demons, which was quite frightening.

At night they tied him up again, and told him not to try and escape. He wondered if they were going to feed him to a demon. Maybe they weren't really from the Chantry – or maybe the Chantry _did_ feed bad little boys to monsters. Just like Gran said.

Reaching the lake was the worst part. It was large and black and deep, and the boat they put him in seemed small and shaky as it went across, sloshing a little whenever the boatman moved. The human had given him brief, pitying looks as he huddled as close to the middle as he could, staring up at the enormous tower before them with wide eyes. Halfway through the trip it began to rain, and so he was partly frozen and bedraggled as they led him inside, and he wondered if this was where they were keeping the demons.

It certainly looked like the sort of place for that, the way it cut into the night from the middle of the lake.

The boatman had left him with more men in heavy plate armour, wearing the same closed-faced helms, who stood there while he shivered in a room that seemed bigger than even the lady's house had been. They didn't say anything to him, and he was too scared to try talking to them. It felt like he'd forgotten what words even _were_.

He felt bad about dripping all over the floor, too. The last time he'd gone into a nice place all drenched from rain, Gran had belted him something fierce for it.

After what felt like an eternity of standing there and shivering, a big pair of doors opened at the back of the room. A slender woman dressed in a fine gold dress emerged, glancing at the armored men before looking towards him. She frowned. "Just _what_ do you think you're doing?" she demanded angrily.

It nearly scared him out of his wits. He couldn't even stammer out a response, but a moment later he realized that she wasn't talking to him. Instead she was glowering at the men. "What in the Maker's name is running through your heads, just leaving him to stand there like that?"

One of them shifted uncomfortably. "We sent a runner to the First Enchanter," he replied. "He hasn't come back yet."

The woman swore, muttering several unflattering things under her breath before she stalked over to him and took hold of his arm. "Why didn't you speak up, boy?" she demanded.

He swallowed, trying to stammer out a response as she marched him through the big-double doors, into a hallway with high ceilings and pointed, arched doorways, and then down and past several until he had no idea where he was.

After a minute she glanced back at him, and something in her features seemed to soften just a bit. "You're scared out of your wits, aren't you?" she asked, as they came inside a long room that was filled with narrow bunks and neatly ordered chests. He'd never seen so many beds in one place before.

Realizing that she was waiting for an answer, he tried again, sucking in a deep breath. "Yes'm," he managed to mumble out, and she let go of his arm. "W-where am I?" he tried.

The woman raised her eyebrows at him. "You're at the Circle Tower, of course," she replied. "Didn't they tell you that was where you were going?"

He shook his head, wondering what the Circle Tower was – it sounded sort of familiar. But he didn't dare ask, lest he risk offending the woman, who stalked over to a larger chest of drawers on the other end of the room and pulled it open. Briskly, she dried him off with a rather large, rough cloth, and then gave him what looked sort of like a girl's dress to change into.

He wondered if he should mention that he was a boy. Humans sometimes had trouble telling with elf children, he knew. But he was too nervous to try. So instead he just put on the girls' clothes, and was rather surprised when the woman led him over to one of the narrow beds, and told him to sleep in it.

An _actual_ bed. Like rich people had. He stared at it until she asked him what was wrong, and then all but pushed him under the covers.

Even as tired as he was, for a long while all he could do was lie there, wondering if someone was going to come in shouting about a mistake and pull him back out again. Or maybe they were just being nice because they felt bad about the demon they were going to feed him to come tomorrow.

He spent a solid week trying to figure out just what was going on, in fact, before he plucked up enough courage to ask the boy who slept in the bed over top of his, and found out that he was apparently a mage.

It was almost a full year after that before he decided that he might _actually_ be one, too.

* * *

"Maker give me strength, Alim, if you don't stop helping Jowan he'll never learn how to do it on his own," young Enchanter Bargin snapped, cuffing him on the back of the head from where he was leaning over his friend's shoulder, trying to talk him through getting the little flickers of light to move from his fingertips to the air.

The blow caught him off-balance, and he almost toppled over before he managed to stop himself. When the enchanter turned back towards the front of the chamber, Jowan shot him an apologetic look.

He shook his head and went back to his own little balls of light, which seemed to get away from his fingers easily enough, but wanted to dance all on their own besides. Most of the other students had gotten theirs to behave, save for a few like Jowan who had failed to get theirs moving, and one or two more like himself, who couldn't seem to _stop_ them from moving.

His lights were steadily migrating across the room when the door opened, and everyone turned to look towards the back of the chamber, where the Knight Commander – much to their surprise – stalked through, the First Enchanter hot on his heels.

"Greagoir, it is the middle of a lesson-"

"All the more reason to stop him before we run the risk of his corrupting further students," the Knight Commander snapped, two of his subordinate templars flanking him as he marched straight up to Enchanter Bargin. He gestured with his hand, and quick as a wink the templars moved to grab him by the arms. A murmur of alarm spread through the students.

The First Enchanter was quietly seething.

"What – what is going on?" Enchanter Bargin demanded, his head whipping between the templars, and then the Knight Commander and the rest of them.

"Enchanter Bargin, you are hereby placed under the custody of the Templars for conspiracy to teach blood magic. You will be removed from the general populace of the tower and held until such a time as your fate has been decided," the Knight Commander declared.

Bargin's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. "No," he said. "No, you are mistaken. First Enchanter! You must believe me! I have no idea what he's talking about!" he insisted, trying ineffectually to tug himself free from the templars' hold.

"I shall do all that I can for you, Owain," the First Enchanter somberly replied, and then, to the students' utter amazement, their instructor was hauled protesting from the room. The Knight Commander and First Enchanter followed.

The door closed behind them with an ominous 'bang'.

For several long minutes, all any of them could do was sit there in silence. Most of the little lights had gone out when the Knight Commander first opened the door, his unexpected arrival spoiling their concentration. Some of them had drifted up towards the ceiling, where they hovered there, shivering. Alim's own had wound up way on the other end of the room, pinging off of Enchanter Bargin's bookstand.

Jowan was looking at the door with a worried expression on his face. Despite his occasionally harsh manner, Bargin was probably his favourite instructor. "What do you think they're going to do to him?" he asked.

"Kill him, probably," one of the girls a row over flatly replied. She sounded more shocked than mocking, but Jowan got upset all the same.

"Kill him?" he demanded. "But… but why would they do that? He said he didn't do anything wrong! Don't they have to prove it first?"

"I hear," one of the boys said, even as they all now looked back towards the closed doorway. "That if the Knight Commander thinks you've done something even just a little bit bad, then he can kill you, and no one can stop him. That's what one of the senior apprentices told me."

A disquieted murmur spread through the chamber at the notion. The girl who'd first spoken grabbed one of her pigtails in her hand and began lightly tugging at it. "They said they thought he was teaching blood magic! What if the Knight Commander thinks we're all blood mages now?" she asked, eyes wide.

Jowan's eyes turned to the size of saucers. "The Knight Commander's going to kill us?"

"The First Enchanter wouldn't let him, would he?"

"He couldn't stop him taking Enchanter Bargin! Maybe the Knight Commander'd just kill him and _then_ kill us!"

"No!"

"But the First Enchanter's a really powerful mage! I bet he could beat the Knight Commander."

"No he couldn't! I heard that templars can steal your magic from you. I bet he'd just steal the First Enchanter's magic and then _use it_ to kill him."

"Oh, Maker, we're all going to die!"

Alim watched as the chamber devolved into what could only be described as 'pandemonium'. Jowan was slowly hyperventilating next to him, gripping his chest in one hand and looking wild-eyed as he sucked in long, shaky breaths. "I don't want to die. What if we jumped out of the windows and into the lake?" he suggested desperately, clamping one hand around Alim's arm. "Can you swim?"

Shaking his head, he nevertheless allowed his friend to drag him over to the nearest window, which was covered in stained glass and at least a few feet over their heads. He really hoped that the Knight Commander didn't kill them all. He was just starting to get used to things, a little bit, even if the rooms were still too large and most everything was a little terrifying.

"Alright. You climb onto my shoulders, and see if you can get it open," Jowan advised, cupping his hands together to give Alim a boost.

Swallowing back his nervousness, he awkwardly tried to get onto the other boy's shoulders, slipping a few times as Jowan had trouble keeping himself steady, and he lost his balance quite a bit. He'd only just sort of managed to almost get there by the time the door opened again. There were a few more children at the other windows who were inspired to try the same thing.

All of them froze in fear.

Jowan promptly dropped him and ran behind the nearest bookcase. The next window over was a slightly older boy and a thickset girl who'd gotten a little closer to their goal. He was sitting on her shoulders, trying to pry the window out by its frame, so Alim supposed it was fairly obvious what they were all doing.

Enchanter Torrin paused in the doorway. Then he rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "Everyone, retake your seats, please," he said, muttering something under his breath about hating teaching. He and most of the others moved to do as told.

The boy at the window apparently had a different idea. He gave a mighty shove and pushed the glass out of its frame with a mouldy-sounding crack, before clambering onto the sill.

"_FREEDOM!"_ he shouted loudly as the rest of them gaped, wide-eyed, and then he jumped. There was the sound of wind whistling through the glass-free window he'd left behind, followed by a loud _splash_.

A very pregnant silence overtook the chamber immediately afterwards.

"…Uh," Alim said quietly, and then with another muttered oath Enchanter Torrin went racing back out of the door, leaving them all to just sort of stare in wonder. No one had expected one of them to _actually_ do it. The girl whose shoulders the boy had been using began hopping up and down, obviously trying to see out of the window he'd escaped by.

"That was _crazy,_" Jowan exclaimed, looking aghast as he re-emerged from hiding. "Did you see that? He jumped into the lake!"

"Wasn't that what you were going to do?" Alim asked, and his friend paled.

"Well, yes, but not _really_. Not unless the Knight Commander came barging through the door with his sword drawn," he replied. "I mean, who's that scared of _Enchanter_ _Torrin_?"

There was the sound of a ruckus out in the corridor, and a mage whom Alim didn't recognize stuck her head into the room. "Right, you lot, sit in the middle of the chamber!" she barked. Something about her tone hit a chord – probably combined with all of the chaos of the day – and they did as told, even as she ducked her head back out and joined the din outside.

For several minutes no one said anything. Again. Alim glanced around at the other children, who looked like they were either waiting for Enchanter Torrin to come back, or waiting for the Knight Commander to charge in and chop off all of their heads.

"I hope the Knight Commander doesn't chop off all our heads," he said into the silence, his quiet voice carrying oddly well through the silent chamber.

The only response to this assertion was a kind of murmur of general agreement.

* * *

Loria was a very pretty elven girl. She had kind of big ears, and a nose that looked a little bit too small for her face, but her light-brown hair was wavy and soft and she kept it loose, so that it fluttered about her, and she had freckles on her cheeks and dimples when she smiled, and big, honey-brown eyes with long dark lashes, and Alim was fairly certain he loved her.

"H-hello, Loria," he stammered, so quietly that she didn't seem to hear him as she walked through the library.

Jowan rolled his eyes. "Maybe if you tried actually speaking like a normal person, she'd notice you," he suggested. "The stuttering will definitely have to go, at least. Actually saying things loud enough for her to hear you would be a good idea too."

The comment earned him an irritated glare.

"See how well _you_ do when _you_ like a girl," he muttered. Not that it mattered. Enchanter Amien had given them 'the' lesson, all about what sex was and how it worked and how none of them were ever supposed to do it, so they'd all better get well-acquainted with their hands, _cough cough_. It was the single most terrifying lesson to date, and that included the one where Knight Commander Greagoir arrested their instructor, _and_ the one where Enchanter Rosamund accidentally lit Jowan on fire.

Although Jowan probably disagreed.

"I'm never going to like a girl," Jowan replied, making a face. "Were you _there_ for that lesson? Ugh."

Or maybe not.

He shrugged, watching Loria's pretty hair as it disappeared around the line of bookshelves. Jowan jabbed a finger rather pointedly at his book. "Pay _attention_," he advised. "If you're not actually going to talk to her then you can at least do what you said you would, and help me study." He sighed. "I don't want to be apprenticed to some irate Healer or something just because I wasn't good enough in my trials."

"Healing's not so bad," Alim replied with a shrug, but obligingly turned back towards the task at hand. Jowan was pretty good at most stuff, but he tended to cut corners and get impatient, and whenever he was frustrated then he _always_ botched things.

"Healing's _boring_," his friend insisted. "There's nothing to it. You just wave your hands and knit the flesh back together. Wow. Done."

He rolled his eyes. "That only works for cuts," he replied, although he could admit that Jowan was actually better at that sort of thing than he was. And _he_ wasn't half bad at it. "Didn't you even look at the texts on ailments and infections? Enchanter Rosamund went over it last month."

Jowan scowled. "The only thing I can remember when I think of her lessons now is what it feels like to have my eyebrows burnt off." He gingerly patted the hair in question, whining a little. "I still think they came back in lopsided."

"No. They were always like that," Alim unthinkingly reassured him.

With a sound of protest, Jowan punched him in the arm, maybe a little harder than he meant to. Glaring, he punched him back, which garnered another protest, and then somehow or another led to the two of them trying to beat one another senseless with their hoods.

A silver-haired senior enchanter separated them with a few stern admonishments to behave themselves, and Alim sighed and tried to repair some of the gold and turquoise tassels that had gotten skewed in the 'fight'. Nothing was saving the hoods in general, of course. They were all comically hideous.

Looking idiotic was a proud tradition of Circle mages.

Jowan tossed his own on the table between them, glancing around. "Did you see where I put my notes?" he asked out of the blue. Blinking, Alim glanced at the stacks of mismatched paper with Jowan's unintelligible scribbles all over them. They were pretty much intermingled with neat pages lined by his own, far more uniform scrawl.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Huffing, Jowan flapped one hand rather vaguely through the air. "The ones on Tevinter arcana as related to Lyrium-based powders."

"Oh. The purple ones," he replied, referring to his friend's penchant for using oddly-coloured inks. He rifled through the stacks nearest to him.

"No, I'm pretty sure they're in green," Jowan decided.

"Your notes on herbalism are in green," Alim reminded him. "Are you thinking of the cramming we did last night on plants with connections to the Fade?"

Sighing, Jowan tossed up his hands. "No. Yes. I don't know. Maybe." He lowered his head to the table with a soft _thunk_. "I'm going to fail my trials," he groaned. "I'm going to make an idiot of myself, and then no one will want to take me on as an apprentice so I'll get _assigned_ to someone and they'll _hate_ me because I haven't got any talent whatsoever, which means I'll never make it through the Harrowing and you'll just wake up one morning to see the templars cleaning my blood off of their swords."

Alim blinked.

He tilted his head a little.

Then he frowned.

Reaching over, he patted his friend consolingly on the back.

"That won't happen. They're always very careful to clean up well before anyone leaves the Harrowing Chamber."

Jowan looked up at him, glowering. "Aren't you just the worst friend ever," he declared in a sulk. Alim smiled a little in return, and then noticed some purple script poking out from beneath his friend's elbow. He nudged him and pulled it free, dropping the sheaf of papers on top of the ones in front of him.

"Nevermind. You're the best friend ever again," Jowan corrected, checking them over and apparently decided that they _were_ the ones he was looking for. "When I fail all of my tests and am forced to flee for my life, you'll be the first person I turn to."

Alim shook his head and sighed.

* * *

The entire chamber had fallen silent, everyone staring at him in shock. He was pretty surprised himself.

The pillar of ice stretched from the floor of the room all the way up to the stone ceiling, leeching cold into the air around it and misting slightly as it started to melt. It was twice as wide around as he was, and thick enough that he couldn't see the instructor who'd started the trial on the other side of it. Though the white frost and fractures probably had something to do with it, too.

He stared at his hands. They were still sort of… tingly.

There was the sound of footsteps behind him, soft and steady. After a second he managed to pull his gaze away from his own hands – and their results – long enough to look up, noting the shadow which fell over him.

First Enchanter Irving was giving him a speculative look, his hands tucked behind his back.

"Interesting," he said.

* * *

He had a stack of scrolls under one arm and a stack of books under the other as he rounded the corner, and nearly walked smack-dab into the templar who was marching purposefully down the middle of it. That was a surprise. Hardly anyone ever walked straight down the middle of corridors in the tower, largely because of all of the blind corners and the mages' bad habits of reading while they moved between rooms.

He reared back, trying to balance on the balls of his feet and resisting the urge to pinwheel – which would have been disastrous – until an armoured hand closed around the front of his robes, and steadied him.

"Careful!" the templar cautioned, much to his shock. He wasn't wearing his helmet, and Alim immediately figured out that he was new to the tower – he didn't look much older than he himself was, all fresh-faced with short ginger hair and a concerned expression.

And quite handsome, too.

His cheeks heated, and with a brief surge of horror wondered where _that_ thought had come from. He swallowed, regaining his balance but taking a step back just the same. "Um, s-sorry," he said, voice breaking a little on the 's'. It made him wince.

The templar grinned. "No trouble," he replied. Then he gestured to the stacks underneath his arms. "Would you like a hand?"

He glanced down at his burdens, following the gesture, and then shrugged rather uncertainly. "First Enchanter just wanted me to take these to his study," he explained. "It's not far."

Reaching over, the templar carefully took the stack of scrolls from him, which allowed him to shift the books between both of his arms. He blinked, thanking him with an awkwardness he hadn't felt since his ill-fated crush on Loria had had him walking into doors and forgetting how to talk. He wondered if maybe all these years of wearing dresses had finally cracked his skull.

"I'm Knight Apprentice Cullen, by the way," the templar introduced himself, before turning back towards the hall. "Um… where…?"

With a nod, Alim gestured in the general direction of the First Enchanter's study, and started walking himself. "My name's Alim," he replied.

"Alim? Hmm. That sounds really elf-ish," Cullen noted. Then he immediately backpedalled. "Er, n-not that it shouldn't, or that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, you're an elf, so obviously you're going to have an elf-ish name. I guess that was kind of obvious."

He caught the stutter, eyes momentarily widening in surprise.

"Sorry," Cullen continued. "I just haven't talked to many elves before. Or many mages, for that matter."

"That's alright," he assured him, feeling his cheeks heat up again and ducking his head in embarrassment. His mouth went a little dry, and he wondered what was wrong with him. Cullen was quite _obviously_ a _man_. Certainly, he'd noticed handsome men before, but never in a – in a _strange_ way. Like someone had just punched him in the gut and then filled it with lyrium.

They made it to the study without any further incidents, and he showed him where to leave the scrolls on his desk. Irving himself was gone, off in another meeting with the Senior Enchanters.

"Do you often run errands for the First Enchanter?" Cullen asked, looking around in obvious curiosity.

He nodded. "Yes. It comes with being an apprentice," he replied.

"They don't haze you when you're confirmed, do they?" the young templar wondered. "The first night I was assigned here some of the younger knights threw me in the lake."

Alim allowed himself a slightly sardonic smile. "If a mage did that, I believe it would be branded an escape attempt," he replied. Then a thought occurred to him. "I think I heard about a lake incident, though. Did you lose your helmet?"

The expression on Cullen's face gave him away before he could answer. He never got a chance to, really, because there was the sound of a throat clearing by the doorway. Another templar – also helmet-less, but stern-faced enough to make up for it – lingered there, giving them a hard look. "Cullen," he said, before making an obvious 'come-here-gesture', and striding away.

"Think I'm in trouble," Cullen muttered, before rubbing a hand at the back of his head and quickly excusing himself to hurry after his fellow knight. Alim watched him go, hoping he hadn't unintentionally made issues for the fellow – a novel concept, actually thinking of a templar as a _person_ – before turning and organizing the books and scrolls on Irving's desk.

He was just leaving the study when someone nearly crashed into him – _again_ – and this time he tripped as he tried to avoid collision, slipping on a smooth patch of the stone floor and tumbling over into an ungraceful heap.

His elbow banged against the corner of the wall, and he grit his teeth.

The someone who had nearly barreled into him fared better, spinning on his heel and dodging to one side before he kept going. He was dressed in an apprentice's robes, but his hands were clutching a staff that looked far too expensive for his rank. Alim's first thought was that he must be hurrying it to some senior mage, but he dismissed _that_ as he noted the blue fire crackled along its braided length, and heard the desperate clanking of several someones in templar armour giving chase. They sounded like they were further down the corridor, but gaining quickly.

Cursing about doors that were locked when they shouldn't have been and something to do with a kitten, the apprentice was soon out of sight, and Alim pulled himself quickly back into the study as the corridor was promptly filled with many running templars.

One of them grabbed him as he moved, looking him over and then rather roughly tossing him back.

He crashed to the floor again, watching as they finished racing by before he dared pick himself up once more. He sighed as he did. Another escape attempt, then. That meant he'd probably have to spend the next week eating his meals and going about his business while nine different sets of eyes glared balefully at him all at once.

Wonderful.

* * *

"I saw you this morning," Cullen told him without a lot of preamble, surprising him while he made his morning trip down to the library for the First Enchanter. The templar fell into step alongside him as they walked. His gaze briefly darted up and down the corridor, obviously double-checking for any signs of his fellows, lest they catch him daring to chat with a mage in a non-hostile sort of way.

"It's _still_ morning, Cullen," Alim amicably pointed out, smiling a little nevertheless and feeling a certain almost-terrifying flutter in his chest when the expression was returned.

His friend-of-a-fashion laughed. "Well, _earlier_ this morning, then," he replied. "Your argument, with that other apprentice? He was… shouting pretty loudly."

Oh. That.

Sighing, Alim shrugged. "Jowan always gets loud when he's upset. I suppose you'd say he's a very expressive person," he explained. "That wasn't really a fight." Generally speaking it wasn't a fight until they were _both_ shouting, and those incidents were few and far between. In fact, he could probably count them all on one hand.

"Looked like a fight to me," Cullen replied, sounding oddly cheerful about it. "What got him so worked up?"

"I have no idea," he admitted. "He's been spending a lot of time around the chapel lately, and when I asked why it set him off." Sometimes he wondered if it was a human thing, but he'd met elves who were easily as strange – if not stranger – so that rather hurt his theory. With a shrug, he pushed the incident from his mind. "I think it's stress. He's expecting to go through his Harrowing soon."

Absently, Cullen nodded. "Yeah, I guess that would be enough to get a man looking to the Maker," he agreed. "It's not fair how they just… _whisk_ you off without any warning, not even telling you a day in advance." There was an almost petulant tone to his voice at that assertion, as if it was something that had bothered him for a while but which no one had ever given him an adequate explanation for.

"Everyone knows you might not come back from it," Alim pragmatically pointed out, considering. "If they told us, many mages would probably try and escape right before their Harrowings."

"Are you nervous about yours?"

Before he could answer, Cullen's questioning expression closed off a little, and he put some more distance between them. Alim blinked when he migrated to the other side of the corridor, falling a few steps behind to pretend that they hadn't been walking side by side. A moment later he spotted the other templars, too, striding down the hall with obvious intent.

They gave their colleague disapproving looks all the same.

Once the knights were well behind them, he glanced back at Cullen, who winked and waved him off. Probably deciding not to tempt ill luck anymore.

He made the rest of the trip down to the library on his own. Outside a late autumn storm had kicked up over the lake, assailing the tower with whistling winds and the distant crack of thunderclouds. The air was rather gloomy and damp, and that mood seemed to have fallen over everyone, dousing them in that rain-soaked kind of grouchiness. The head librarian gave him a disgruntled look when he made Irving's request, and a pair of younger apprentices were gossiping over their books a little snidely while he waited.

They glanced towards him, and one of them elbowed the other. She elbowed her friend back, in turn, and he watched in mild confusion until both of them had risen and tentatively approached. They glanced at one another with knowing looks. Up close, their human heritage was apparent, as both of them were a fair bit taller than him.

"You're friends with Jowan, right?" one of them asked.

Before he could answer, the other piped up. "Is it true what they're saying about him? That he's been doing…" she paused, glancing around, and then mouthed the words 'blood magic' at him.

His eyes widened, and he had to suppress the urge to reflexively raise a hand and ward her off, because there were some things a person just did _not_ waltz up to a colleague and ask about, quietly or no. Particularly when said colleague was only vaguely familiar at best. Once he'd tamped down on that impulse, the full ramifications of the question hit him.

"Where did you hear that?" he asked, his tone icy cold.

The girls exchanged another look with each other, but they seemed a little less frivolous and a little more uncertain of him. "_Everyone_ heard about Enchanter Tarleth catching him healing that gash on his arm," one of them eventually replied.

His brow furrowed. "Gash?" he asked. Gossip wasn't something he tended to keep track of, although he was surprised Jowan hadn't mentioned it. Maybe he'd meant to, but getting upset earlier had put it from his mind.

Both of them nodded. "You didn't know?"

"_I_ heard Enchanter Tarleth was absolutely livid."

He felt the stirrings of a rather ominous prickle traveling up his spine. "Jowan wouldn't do something like that," he said, his voice firm and a little sharp. "If he hurt himself then it was by accident."

The looks the apprentices exchanged at that were skeptical enough to see. "But then why did he try to heal it himself?" one asked.

"He's good at healing magic," he curtly replied. "Don't spread rumours like this around. If the templars hear them then they might start to believe them."

Not that they probably wouldn't have heard them _already_, in all likelihood. For some it was easy to forget that the armoured figures were men, and not merely statues. Men with eyes and ears. Though now and then that made things easier – being hyper-aware of how often one was being watched in the tower tended to drive a lot of mages mad.

The apprentices did look a little cowed, at that, and Alim quite pointedly ignored them afterwards. He would have to talk to Jowan. Not because he believed his friend would ever be stupid enough to use blood magic, but because it was important to nip that kind of talk in the bud. If he was going to help, he'd need to know what had really happened.

* * *

They woke him in the night, slipping into the dormitory with the sort of quiet that ought to have been impossible in so much armour. Alim's eyes snapped open when he felt the suppressing forces at work on his magic, and a hand closing over his mouth. They dragged him from the room in utter silence, and he felt the chill of the stone floor through his feet, the spark of fear as they held his arms and just marched him along the corridors. It made him remember when he'd been small and terrified and utterly convinced that they were going to feed him to a demon.

It made him wonder, terrified, if they'd decided that he was a blood mage or a hidden abomination, or a danger of some other sort, and that he was going to be killed or made tranquil.

When they'd stopped outside the barred doors of the Harrowing Chamber instead, it had almost been a relief.


	4. Faren Brosca

"_You keep your head down and say 'aye' to any job I decide is low enough for scum like you."_

When he was small, the house was always full of people. It was easy to notice, because there was only one room, so if anyone was in it then they were in it. More often than not there was always the clank of bottles, the dull thud of boots and feet against the packed-dirt floor, and Rica's hand pulling him away from knees he had to crane his head to see past.

But it wasn't bad. Most of the time there was laughter, and if his father was drunk enough he'd scoop him up and pull him onto his shoulders.

"You grow up to be bigger'n me, son, and maybe you'll be brute enough to keep from starving," he said, blackened fingernails and scarred hands resting on his knees, the smell of ale on his breath. "Hope yer lucky, little nug turd."

Faren had smiled, because everyone in the room had started laughing at that. A few had clapped his father on the back, jostling his perch a little, and then he'd been shrugged awkwardly back onto the floor. He stumbled a bit, and before he could blink Rica was there. She wrapped her arms around him, but unlike the men she wasn't smiling or laughing.

"C'mon," she said quietly, tugging him away from the noise and people like she always did. A stray hand reached out, grabbing one of her messy red braids and snickering as she pulled away, not stopping until they'd gotten out the front door. They passed their mother on the way.

"Mind you don't go far!" she'd said – snapped, more like – and Rica had murmured her assent before they were out on the street, the noise fading behind them. He blinked the dust out of his eyes and he sneezed as it flew up his nose. The shanty buildings and old stone houses were all packed together, the spaces in between only small enough for children like himself or Rica to fit through, or dwarves who had starved enough that they could slide sideways past the walls.

His stomach had been gnawing at him. It was easier to ignore inside, with his father talking and all the people to distract himself from it, but alone on the street with Rica he'd had to take notice of it again.

"I found two whole coins today and they drank both of them!" his sister had said, frustration colouring her voice as she pulled him into the dark little split between their house and another. Distantly, he heard the sound of shouting, and a woman crying.

"No worry," he'd said, even as she'd let out a frustrated breath, kicking at the dirt and letting go of his hand long enough to pull at her hair. In the shadows next to their house they were relatively safe, especially when they walked all the way to the middle, where no one bigger than they were could reach them. It was dark and smelled like garbage – and usually had garbage in it, too – but _everywhere_ was like that. He didn't know a place that didn't smell like garbage, the only differences were between the kinds of trash.

"_Don't_ worry," she'd corrected, letting out a breath and then rummaging around in the sewed-on pockets of her dress. Every time Rica found a scrap of fabric that was too small for anything else, their mother would sew her a new pocket. They all looked like patches, so it was easier to hide things from people who didn't know.

"Don't worry?"

She smiled at him. "Right. Don't worry. Next time I find coin, 'm gonna get _food_ with it and just bring that back."

"Okay, Rica," he'd replied. What he really wanted to do was go back inside, where it was noisy and cheerful and maybe his father would pay attention to him again, but where his sister went, he followed. That was just how the world worked.

When she pulled her dirt-stained fingers out of her pocket, he brightened, recognizing a few crumbs. "Careful," she said before giving them to him, and he dutifully cupped his hands. "I saved these from yesterday. Don't drop any."

"I no drop."

"I _won't_ drop _them_," she corrected again, watching him carefully as he placed them in his mouth, carrying on until every last speck was gone from his hands. It hadn't stopped the clawing in his stomach, but so far as he knew there was nothing that could do that.

Rica didn't smile. She just wrapped her arms around her own stomach, and then leaned back against the wall behind her. The stone was rough and a little too hot, too close to the molten pits to really be comfortable. He mirrored her position on the opposite side of the narrow alley, letting his arms rest along his sides as he stared at her. Sometimes she did that. She just sort of closed her eyes and went away for a while – not sleeping, but not really _there_, either.

When mother caught her doing it, she smacked her upside the head and called her witless. Faren didn't really understand himself, since he only knew that if he spent a lot of time with his eyes closed them he'd probably get kicked and trod on and such, but he also knew that Rica was smart, so she probably had a good reason for it.

After a few long minutes she opened her eyes again, looking at him slouched across from her.

_Then_ she smiled.

"Tomorrow's going to be better," she told him. "Tomorrow, we're going to find a big, huge treasure box, all filled with gold coins and gems and soft silks, and a big, roasted nug."

He smiled back at her. "Really?"

"Mmhmm. And at the very bottom there's going to be a special seal, and it will mean that whoever finds this seal isn't casteless anymore. Then all the nobles will come down from the city, and they'll see you and me and our new seal and whisk us off to live in one of their fancy houses where we'll have feasts every night."

"All nights?"

She'd reached over, brushed her fingers across his brand in a familiar gesture. Sometimes she would tell him about the night he'd been branded, how scared she was at hearing him cry, but that she knew he'd be alright because even then he was the strongest little Duster ever born.

"All of them."

* * *

The empty bottle of mosswine smashed as it collided with the wall over his head, raining shards of glass down on him and making him reflexively duck and cover. He blinked through the line of his arms, and the sound of shrieking filled up the house like madness.

"I'll _leave!"_ Rica shouted, face red and hands clenched at her sides, hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "I'll go top-side just like father did!"

"As if you could!" Mother snapped back, weaving a little from where she was sitting on a pile of rags, a few more empty bottles strewn around her and her eyes cloudy and bloodshot. "Worthless, ugly slut like you wouldn't get five feet up there 'fore the giants raped you!"

"At least I'd have a chance!" his sister replied, and she was as mad as he could ever remember seeing her. "Why wouldn't I take a risk over a sure thing?"

"Fine! Go!" their mother said, throwing another bottle. He managed to dodge that time, avoiding the spray of glass as it shattered on the stone between the three of them. "Ungrateful piece of trash! I ought to have cracked your head on the doorstep the second you were born, rather than listen to your screaming and wailing for fourteen years!"

Rica was shaking.

He looked towards his mother, and glared. "Shut your drunk mouth!"

His voice filled up the whole house when he shouted, louder and deeper than his mother's or sister's, and both of them finally seemed to notice that he'd come in. Anticipating the third bottle that was thrown – aimed intentionally for his head that time – he hurried sideways, and then closed one hand over Rica's narrow wrist.

"You filthy little bone-picker! I brought you into this world! I carried your worthless sack around in my gut-"

Rather than stay around and listen to her shrieking, he tugged Rica's hand, yanking her back out of the front door with him and listening to the sound of the last bottle smash against it behind them.

Once they were out, Rica shrugged her wrist from his grip and dropped her face into her hands, stopping right there on the stoop and just sort of crumpling against the wall. Faren looked at her, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other as he tried to figure out what he should do. They fought all the time, Mother and Rica, but it never seemed to bother his sister this much.

"Here," he said, rummaging in his pocket. "Here, Rica, I found this."

She didn't look up at him, too busy wiping the tears off of her cheeks, so he grabbed one of her hands and pressed the small clump of red moss against it. The stuff grew down in the lower levels, closer to where Dust Town ran out and the deeper mines began. It was fairly edible, and a lucky find.

"You can have it," he added, when she didn't seem to look any less miserable.

Her reddened eyes focused on the little clump in her palm, and then she closed her hand around it, and tried to give it back to him. "No, Faren, you found it. You should eat it," she told him.

"It's okay," he assured her, even though he was tempted to just take it back all the same. "I don't need it."

"Faren…"

She looked like she going to argue, when they were interrupted by a gruff voice behind them. "You don't want it, girl, give it here," its owner said. They both turned, then, catching sight of the scraggly-looking Duster in the street. He wasn't much of a sight. Old and beat-down looking, with ropey muscles and enough scars to make him look like he'd been stitched together out of parts of other people. Still, he was bigger than both of them, and there was dried blood under the crags of his fingernails and on the front of his shirt. "No sense in putting it to waste."

Rica's eyes darted from him, and then back to the door nearby. She grabbed Faren's shoulder and squeezed it tight enough to hurt. "Just go on your way," she said. "There's nothing for you."

The man's face crumpled in immediate anger. "Lies!" he bellowed, reminding Faren like a frightening, distorted mirror of his mother. "You have it right there! I saw it!"

All at once he lunged forward, and Rica whipped back, grabbing the door to open it and rush them both inside. The strange Duster crashed into them, though, and so they both fell against it instead. He heard his sister shout a protest as a gnarled fist closed around her neck, the other pawing for hands and the red moss. His back crashed painfully against the door.

With a cry of protest, his vision clouded with red and he lashed out, head-butting the old man right in his chest. Rica cried out as he was knocked back, the hand around her neck yanking her with him, and Faren just started pummeling. "Let her go! _Let her go!"_

Their attacker didn't change his focus, still trying to wrench open Rica's hand as Faren punched him in the chest, in the arms, and then on inspiration he brought his hands together and slammed them hard – as hard as he could – against the weathered old throat above him.

With a wheezing cry the Duster let go of Rica, making odd sounds as he gasped and clutched at his neck. Faren stared at him. He was so much bigger, taller and broader than he was, that he almost couldn't believe it had _worked_. But then his sister grabbed him up – both arms around his waist and everything – and hauled him straight back inside.

She was breathing heavily, eyes wide with fright as she clutched him to her and started sobbing again.

"Rica? Rica, are you alright?" he asked, but it was hard to get a word in as she wouldn't let him go, instead leaning as hard as she could against the door behind them to keep it shut. He didn't hear anything on the other side. So, he guessed that Duster was still writhing around in the dirt. Or he'd cleared off.

Their mother made a sound of protest. He was glad she was out of bottles, even though there was enough broken glass all around the door that it probably wouldn't have mattered.

"What're you brats doing _now?"_

"Shut up," Rica hissed, although Faren didn't think she said it loud enough for anyone other than himself to hear. "Shut up, shut up, _shut up!"_

The last part was a little louder.

Their mother starting shrieking about ingratitude and worthlessness again after that, and Faren decided that there wasn't much for it but to stand there and feel kind of useless, not until Rica decided to let go of him. When she finally did, it was only so she could storm over to their mother and slap her sharply across the face.

"SHUT UP!" she shouted.

A shocked silence filled up the house. Everyone seemed surprised. Even Rica.

Their mother stared at her, cheek slowly reddening, jaw slack and bloodshot eyes wide.

Then she started weeping.

As Rica was _still_ crying, that left the both of them in tears, and Faren stood and watched as the two of them broke down. After a few minutes, he moved to the far wall, fixing his hands around the handle of the battered old trunk chest that had held their few belongings. Back when they'd had some. He heaved, pulling and straining until he'd dragged it over to the door, and then pressed it up against it, crushing glass underfoot.

That night, they slept huddled together for warmth, the bed reeking of mosswine and his mother and sister both tired out. When they woke the next morning, their mother had started shouting again. He'd dragged the trunk away from the door, peering out and half-expecting to see the old duster from the day before waiting for them.

In a way, he was. Faren stared at the still form lying in the dusty road outside of their door, throat blue and purple, eyes blank and staring up at the stone.

The first person he ever killed.

* * *

"Thief! Brand! Catch him!"

Faren moved as fast as his legs could carry him, which was faster than most people would think. A hand reached out to try and grab him – his shirt or hair, maybe, he wasn't sure which – and he ploughed through it, earning a muffled curse as the offending limb was rammed away. He pelted down the stone streets, not looking back to see the pursuers he knew he had. Instead he flung himself over one of the nearby walls, feet skidding against rock and stone and dirt as he narrowly avoided tumbling head-long into a fountain of magma. The impact of landing knocked the breath out of him, and nearly broke his ankle.

But that was the point. Duster'd have to be crazy to make a jump like that.

He skirted around it, one arm flung over his mouth to avoid breathing in the too-hot air as heat washed over his face, steps quick to avoid burning through the soles of his shoes. Above him he heard shouting and cursing, but no more sounds of pursuit.

About an hour of that later, the high walls above him began to break and crumble, losing their grandeur as they drifted into the poor-kept frames and rubble of Dust Town. The air turned from unbearably hot to thick and gritty, and he paused for a moment to shove the loaf of bread underneath his shirt and out of sight. His stomach growled expectantly.

A few dusters threw him looks as he steadily climbed his way back up from the pit. No one tried him, though. He passed some gaggles of little kids, pinch-faced and small-looking they picked their way around rock face, scavenging for anything left of dusters who'd jumped to their deaths, for one reason or another. Faren ignored them, keeping his head down and his steps fast as he made his way home.

There was a dark-haired young dwarf, scruffy-looking and almost as big as he was, leaning against the door frame when he got there.

"You better not be bothering my sister, Leske," he said warningly, elbowing past him to go inside, but not stopping the other from following along.

"Hey, if it isn't the man of the hour!" Leske greeted. "Stuffing your shirt, huh? Don't know if that's a good look for you. But hey, you do what you have to, right?" he asked, snickering and clapping him on the back.

Faren shot him a glare. "Funny. Guess I'll have to eat my shirt-stuffing alone, then," he reasoned, before looking around the small house. His mother was passed out in the corner, snoring heavily. Rica wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Oh, c'mon, salrokka. Grow a sense of humour," Leske advised, picking through the discarded wine bottles on the floor, looking for any that had a drop left in the bottom. "I didn't find anything today."

"Did ya _look?"_ Faren asked, muttering under his breath, but he tore a chunk off of his loaf just the same and tossed it to the other boy. Quick as a wink, the other dwarf caught hold of it.

"You're a real pal."

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me," he agreed, before breaking off another piece and stuffing it in his mouth. The bread was dark and gritty, better than moss and more filling besides. He forced himself to slow down as he chewed, trying to make it last. The rest he tucked away again. "You seen my sister?" he asked when he was done, wiping his hands together.

Leske shrugged. "Nah. But she's probably off with the other wh… women down by the Market District," he reasoned, catching himself and coughing.

After a beat, Faren decided to let the slip go. It wasn't like it was a lie, exactly, but it was a sore point. He cast a glance at his mother, and then, reluctantly shuffled over to where she was lying. He nudged her lightly with his foot, until she roused enough to blink blearily up at him.

"Wha…?"

"I found some food," he told her. "You gonna eat?"

She groaned and rolled over, batting him away, and with a shrug he left her to it. "Fine. I'm going for Rica."

"You sure you want to do that?" Leske asked, following him back out of the door and onto the hot, dry streets. "You remember what happened last time. If you keep scaring off their patrons, the girls'll crack your skull, no matter how thick it is."

"Duster had it coming," he insisted, hunching his shoulders a little. "Besides. I take down enough big guys like him, maybe the carta'll start to notice." Maybe they'd give him work, then, and it probably wouldn't be good work, but it'd be enough that Rica wouldn't have to keep going out and trying to catch men's eyes.

Leske snorted. "Yeah. Sure. Keep dreamin', duster, the carta doesn't hire boys like us unless they've got pretty mouths." He pulled a face, and Faren grimaced, too.

"I'm not _always_ gonna be this age," he pointed out a little sullenly. "You just don't plan ahead. That's your problem."

"Sure," Leske agreed with a bitter laugh. "_That's_ the real kicker in my life. I suck at plans. Everything else? That's just great."

* * *

They turned up sometimes in Dust Town. Old throw-aways from the Warrior Caste who'd done something or other to disgrace themselves in battle. Gone nuts and killed other members of their unit. Pissed off the wrong noble, disobeyed the wrong order, or just plain flipped their lids and didn't have anyone who cared about them enough to put up with their shit anymore. Faren saw them now and again, always easy to spot on the streets of Dust Town. They stood out because it hadn't sunk in for them yet. Because they didn't understand that this was _it_, their life now, with the ground for a bed and the clothes on their back for a blanket. The lack of total resignation was written all over their faces.

He almost felt bad for them. Dusters like him, they'd grown up knowing the slope of the land, learning how to scrape by for the worst of it. But the ones who got dropped in, well, they drowned in it – and if they weren't crazy to begin with, they usually got there soon enough.

"Okay," Leske said, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Okay, so Beraht's guy says we just gotta kill him, right? So let's… let's just do it quick. Then we can go back and get the money."

Faren stared at the old dwarf, leaning haggard against the side of a building. He didn't look like the kind of guy who could piss someone off enough to want him dead. He looked like the kind of guy who'd just had his boots stolen, in fact, and was trying to drink his sorrows away in ale that was too watered down to get the job done.

"You hold him," Faren said, pulling the small, sharp blade he'd been given out of the waist of his pants. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating fast. "I'll do it."

Leske agreed a little quickly, not quite meeting his eye.

For a few seconds they just sort of stayed where they were. Then Faren reached over and gave his shoulder a firm shove. "Go," he said, and his friend did, darting out into the street to grab the old man by his arm and pin him up against the wall.

"Whattar…?" he protested.

Faren stuck the knife into his neck. The word gurgled out, and the man flailed. He tried to push them back, force them away. One of his hands caught Faren's arm and knocked him sideways, wrenching the knife from the wound. Blood poured from it as he pressed a weathered hand against it, trying to kick Leske away.

"Stab him again!" Leske all but shouted.

Shifting his grip on the blood-slick knife, Faren tried to stab the old man in his chest, but wound up cutting his arm instead when he moved to block the attack. He grit his teeth, because it was taking too long, because he didn't even _know_ the guy and he was _killing_ him and there was a glazed, panicked look to his eyes as he flailed and fought…

With a curse, Faren dropped the knife and punched the old man across the head as hard as he could. There was a _crack_ as his face turned sharply sideways, and then Faren punched again, and again, until he heard a sharp _snap_. He grabbed the dwarf's head and wrenched it as hard as he could, just to be sure, and he when he let go, the body went limp and crooked.

Leske dropped him, jaw slack.

"You…" he trailed off, the both of them staring down at the corpse bleeding into the dust.

Faren looked, and then he turned away, dropping to his hands and knees as he emptied his stomach onto the street.

* * *

The countertop was cool and smooth, clean and new-looking as he leaned his elbow against it. Everything in the shop was pretty nice, in fact. Brighter and neater and tidier than… well, pretty much _anything_ in Dust Town. "Listen," Faren said, glancing down at the smudge marks his elbow was leaving. "It's a rough city out there, salrokka. Lots of dangerous people. Ain't that right, Leske?"

He glanced back towards his friend, who was busy getting smudgy fingerprints all over the store's neat, orderly shelves. "Oh yeah," he agreed with a chuckle. "Rough enough to keep a duster up at night."

The shopkeeper swallowed, shifting a little from foot to foot as he tried to stare them down.

"Lucky for you," Faren continued. "There are strong, capable people out there who are willing to look out for your best interests. Keep things nice. Safe. Secure."

Leske nodded. "That's decent of them."

"Practically a charity service," he agreed. "Of course, even charities need their donations. People like that, well, they've gotta have their equipment if they're gonna look out for anyone. Armour. Knives. Medicine and bandages. You know – the kinda stuff you want to have on hand when you're protecting hapless shops from all the nasty thugs out there."

Again the shopkeeper swallowed, shooting a nervous glance to the smudge on his countertop. "A-and, uh, how much is this… 'charity' looking to get from me?"

Faren smiled. "Good of you to ask," he commended. "Leske, what would you say is an acceptable donation?"

"Lemme think," Leske replied, cracking his knuckles and sucking in a deep breath. "Thirty percent seems to be the going rate for smart, kind-hearted folks these days."

"_Thirty percent?"_ the shopkeeper balked. "What, of _everything?"_

Faren shrugged. "Well, I guess it _is_ a little low. I mean, if you wanna pay more…"

"No, no, no! It's fine! Tell Beraht I'll pay it!" he immediately backpedaled. "Just – just clear out of my shop now, please. You're scaring off my customers."

Straightening up, Faren bit back a sigh and gave the man a negligent wave. "Yeah, alright. Just make sure you pay him," he said, as Leske sidled up to him, glaring at little. Hey, the whole 'scaring off customers' thing might have been accurate, but it was never really _nice_ to hear.

"We should up the percentage," his friend suggested in a whisper. "He cracked too easily. Beraht'll sure be happy if we can get him more money."

With a glance back, Faren grabbed his arm, and then pulled them both out of the shop. When they were clear, he let go. "I'll do my job," he said. "But I'm not doin' Beraht any _favours_. Not ones he doesn't even ask for."

Leske gave him an unimpressed look, rolling his eyes. "You gotta get over hating the guy," he advised. "I don't like the bastard any more than the next duster, but if he hears you talk like that you'll be stuck doing shit jobs 'till you're too old to throw a punch."

With a shrug, Faren moved back towards the street. "Or until the next thug bumps him off."

"Nobody's gonna bump Beraht off," Leske countered with a snort. "He's got connections all over the city. Any duster who tried it'd be dead before he even got within three feet."

"Well sure, I'm not banking on anyone _sane _making the effort," he replied, the cool stones of the Market District flat and even beneath his boots. A passing merchant made to give them a wide berth at the last minute, and Leske, grinning, purposefully crashed his shoulder against the round-faced man.

"Whoops," he said.

The merchant glared. "Filthy brand," he muttered under his breath.

His retort earned him a rude gesture, and Faren snickered a little because, alright, that was kind of funny. They shouldered their way to Beraht's shop, the brands on their cheeks earning contemptuous or even fearful looks. When people didn't just ignore them completely, of course. Some of Beraht's girls were standing outside of the shop – taking a break, by the looks of it. Their faces were tired underneath the layers of make-up, and they didn't even spare so much as a smile or glare when Leske wolf-whistled.

"Lay off them," Faren advised.

Leske clapped his arms to his sides rather dramatically, rolling his eyes. "You're a regular white-knight, you know that?" He paused as they passed the women, gesturing towards him. "Ladies, your delicate virtue will always be safe with my Lord Killjoy here. Never fear!"

They gave him a bland look, although one almost cracked a smile.

"What'd I just say?" Faren asked, and then reaching out, grabbed Leske by his arm and dragged him into the shop.

"You know I never listen to you. Besides, shit like this?" he said, pointing between the two of them as he reclaimed his arm. "This is why people think we're a sodding gay couple."

"Well, that _is_ what I tell my sister," he joked, watching as his friend's face turned from goading to horrified, and then angry. He dodged the punch aimed at his head, darting away and then turning into the shop proper. Beraht wasn't there – happily – but Jarvia was, sneering down at some poor sap she'd tied to a chair. He didn't look too good.

She glanced up at them, scowling. "Damn it. Who left the door open? The rats are getting in."

"Funny," he replied. "You been practicing that all morning?"

The poor bastard on the chair turned a bleary head towards him, half his face purple with bruising. "Please. Help me," he said.

Jarvia scoffed. "You idiot. You think anyone's gonna come in here if they _don't_ work for Beraht?" she demanded, shaking out the muscles in her hand and then nodding towards the other side of the room. Faren followed her, Leske in his shadow. "Well? Don't tell me you screwed up a simple extortion bid."

"Of course we didn't," Leske replied. "Beraht'll get his thirty percent, just like he wanted."

"Good. 'Cause if I find out you two screwed up, I'll take the difference out of your hide," she assured them.

Faren just shrugged. "Job's done, anyway. You got anything more for us?"

She looked at him, then glanced back towards her victim on them chair, and back again. "Sure," she said. "This dead man's been smuggling spice off of Beraht. We know he's got a stash somewhere. Find out where," she instructed, giving her hand another shake, and then stalking off.

The poor sap shot them an absolutely miserable look.

Leske straightened his gloves. "Shall I do the honours?" he asked.

"I told her," the guy protested. "It's on the surface! I can't get to it here!"

Great. He sounded like he was telling the truth, too. That meant they just wanted to make an 'example' of him, leave an ugly corpse with a painful death behind to remind everyone why they didn't swindle the carta. Faren walked around until he was in front of him, watching the duster flinch back and duck his eyes. "You got one shot at walking out of here alive, and that's telling me there's a stash down here, and where it is," he said.

His victim laughed. "Even if I had all the spice in my pocket, you'd still kill me," he replied, with the resigned air of a man who knew he was doomed.

Sucking in a breath, Faren leaned down a little. "You're right," he agreed. Then he reached out, quick as he could, and snapped his neck.

Leske groaned.

"Oh, not this again," he said. "He was probably lying! Shit! We're gonna hear it now."

Faren ignored him, rolling up his sleeves and proceeding to pummel the corpse.

Had to look convincingly tortured, after all.

* * *

He didn't ask who lived in the house before it came into their hands. It was so much bigger than their old one – separate rooms and everything – and the bloodstains took some doing to get out, but he and Rica set to it in silence. Their mother stared blearily about, sitting at their new table, wine bottle clenched tightly in one fist.

"Where're we?" she demanded.

"Just drink your wine," he advised, making Rica sigh.

"We finally get a place big enough for all of us, and she can't even sober up enough to notice it," she complained under her breath.

"You're the one who gives her money," he pointed out.

She just sighed again.

They spent the morning making the place habitable, chasing off beggars and other dusters who lingered too long – some to see if there was anything they could steal, but most to get a look at Rica. Even when she wasn't wearing her working clothes, Beraht's 'teachers' had made her something worth looking at in the grit and grime of Dust Town.

Faren wished she hadn't taken the bastard's offer. He'd joined the carta so she wouldn't _have _to do that stuff anymore, but Rica always dreamed bigger than he did. She wanted to do more than survive. She wanted to _live_.

By the time Leske came by, the place was looking better than it probably had in years. They both knew it wouldn't last, of course. Dust from the street was already blowing back in, and in no time flat their mother would have the floor littered with bottles again.

"_Nice,_" Leske said, ostensibly looking at the house, despite the fact that his gaze was definitely rather Rica-centric. "I know what floor _I'm_ crashing on tonight."

"Not if you keep looking at my sister that way," Faren warned. "I've already cracked two duster's skulls for trying to pull something, but I'm not too tired to kick your ass, too."

His friend raised his hands, adopting a look of completely unconvincing innocence. "Hey, can't blame a guy for noticing. Right, Rica?"

Rica just rolled her eyes. "Hello, Leske. Looking after yourself?"

"Always do." Reluctantly, he turned back to Faren, who had folded his arms and was giving him an expectant look. He met his gaze, and then rolled his eyes. "What? Can't a duster just visit his friends?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied. "What d'ya need?"

For a few seconds Leske attempted to hold onto his moral indignation, but it fell apart pretty quick. Glancing at Rica in a less-appreciative, more she-has-ears kind of a way, he grabbed Faren by the arm and dragged him across the street. "Okay, look," he began. "I might – _might_ – have screwed up. Big time."

Faren gave him a look. "Screwed up as in 'please give me a mercy killing' or screwed up as in 'please hide me from this big guy with an axe'?"

"Screwed up as in 'told a tavern keeper that Beraht had ordered free ale sent to my door'," he replied, wincing as Faren's expression turned from resigned to thunderous.

"_You sodding idiot!_"

"I know."

"How did you even think you would get away with that?"

"Well, at the time I was drunk. And you always say I'm bad at making plans!"

"How _much_ ale?" he demanded, realizing he was shouting loud enough to scare the beggars off the street.

Leske raised his hands. "None!" he said. "Beraht found out and, uh, set it straight before I could get any."

"Great. You might actually _live_," Faren replied.

"I know, I know," Leske repeated. "Listen, I can get myself out of this. I just need a place to lie low, somewhere Beraht won't find me until he's cooled down. Y'know?" he asked.

Okay. That was a little confusing. "Sure," he said. "I get it. But why come here? Beraht's people are all over this place for Rica."

"That's just it," Leske replied. "Staying here'd be so sodding stupid, no one would expect me to. Your house has that little back room, right? Just let me camp out," he begged. "I'll keep myself scarce, and I'll lay off of Rica, I swear."

Faren gave him a long look.

"You're a moron, Leske," he reminded him.

Leske deflated.

He sighed. "Fine. You owe me." Then he amended. "Again."

* * *

When he woke up that morning, Rica was in the main room, wearing some of her finer clothes and curling her braids at the base of her skull, pins held between her teeth. He paused, wiping some of the sleep off of his face and glancing over at their mother, who was surprisingly conscious.

"Beraht's coming by today," his sister informed him. "You should leave before he gets here."

"Can't," he replied. "Leske's meeting me here."

Her shoulders slumped a little, and she gave him a look. "Please don't antagonize him," she asked. "He's not going to be happy with me right now."

Faren met her gaze, and after a beat, nodded.

But he didn't promise anything.


	5. Sereda Aeducan

"_Denial of the traditions of our people does not qualify as a political technicality."_

When Bhelen was born, her mother had thrown an absolute fit.

She had stared at the little cradle, its frame wrapped in soft sculpture, the tiny, pink-faced infant sleeping with his fists scrunched up as his mother stood nearby. Her nurse held her to her shoulder, keeping a distance as her own mother hissed and glared and pointed accusing features at the woman with a casteless brand on her cheek.

"It doesn't even look a thing _like _Endrin!" she had said. The casteless woman had looked pale and tired as she situated herself between the crib and Sereda's mother, who was so much harder and grander in her royal jewels and perfectly pressed clothing, and yet, not nearly as fierce.

"My baby is not an 'it'!" the woman had snapped, hands balled into fists at her sides. "And he looks as much like his father as a newborn can! It's not for you to decide who the king acknowledges as his son!"

"You dare…" her mother had hissed, eyes flashing and cheeks darkening as she looked the very picture of rage, and then smacked the other woman, hard, across the face. It was enough to knock her back, and then the baby woke and started to cry as Sereda's nurse froze – turning her head a little, so her face was buried more into her shoulder – and the other maid in the room gasped.

She had seen her mother move again, from the corner of her eye. "You may have tricked my husband, whore, but you won't convince me that your spawn is legitimate. The first hint I find that you have entertained other men in your bed, and both of you will be executed," she had threatened. Then, with a snap of her fingers, she whirled from the room. Sereda's nurse had hastened to follow.

With her face looking behind her as they left, she had seen the cold fury in the casteless woman's eyes.

"My lady-"

"Be silent," her mother snapped.

"But my lady, more babes strengthen the house of the king," her nurse had persisted, and when her mother turned towards her, it was clear she was still furious.

For a moment Sereda thought that she would strike the other woman. Instead she reached over, hands rather hard and cold, and pulled Sereda out of her arms. It was strange to be held by her, up high where she could see the gems of her earrings, close enough to smell the sharp scent of her perfume. "My daughter gives House Aeducan more strength than a thousand casteless spawn. If you cannot see that, then you will have nothing more to do with her."

Her nurse had gasped, eyes going wide in shock.

"My lady, y-you can't mean… I take it back!" she had exclaimed, clutching the fabric of her dress as if she wished to reach over and snatch Sereda back, but did not dare to. "The little princess is, of course, the pride of-"

"Get out."

It had been impossible for her to really understand what was transpiring at the time. Her mother often got angry with the servants, often yelled at her nurse, and she had been more caught up in the change that was being held by her. Her hands were too tight, and her nails were too sharp, but her face was so pretty and she seemed strong. Strong like stone.

The guards had come and escorted her nurse away. Her mother had carried her back to the nursery herself, and wherever she strode the servants were quick to leave her path, heads low and voices soft as they murmured apologies.

Her mother had handed her off to a nurse she recognized far less than the one she'd been plucked from, and then paused for a moment. Sereda had watched her as she reached out, smoothing a stray curl away from her cheek, her expression softening just a little bit. It was enough to make her smile hesitantly up at her.

Then she'd turned and strode from the room. "Where is my second? Where is Lida?" she had bellowed, the nursery door slamming in her wake, and the nurse holding Sereda shivering a little around her. She had turned to regard her after a moment.

"Your lady mother," she had said, very quietly. "Is a nightmare. I almost pity that poor noble-hunter."

* * *

The halls of the palace were gleaming gold and intricately carved, arcing up towards a high ceiling that seemed to stretch forever, wrapping around pillars and framing the blood-red carpet that trailed through the building in straight, severe lines. She followed the lines, boots tapping lightly with every step as she kept to the border of the carpet and put one foot in front of the other.

The nurse who followed her was silent, expression bored as she kept face a few paces behind. After several minutes of simply walking, moving down the long hall, she finally had enough. "My lady," she began. "Are you certain this is what you wish to be doing? We could go and find young Lady Helmi, or perhaps see if the tutor can begin an early start to your lessons."

Sereda glanced back towards her, and then forwards again. "No," she replied. "This is my time for the rest of the hour, and we're doing what I want to do." On that note she kept walking. Tap, tap, tap. The wall curved, opening up into an archway that led down a different corridor, framed in sturdy, geometric shapes. Her eyes lingered over them for a moment.

Her nurse sighed. "My lady, _why_ do you wish to do this?" she asked, clearly wanting to be somewhere else – somewhere more interesting, perhaps, where there was more to see or do than follow her about.

With a shrug, Sereda kept on. "I don't know," she lied.

Her mother had walked the halls, before the accident. She had seen her do it so many times, _heard_ her do it so many times, shoes tap-tap-tapping when she came to see Sereda, always heading straight down the middle of the carpet. Like she owned it. Like she owned _everything_ that was worth owning, and Sereda thought if she squinted, she might see the ghosts of those footprints indented in the red fabric.

They walked until her nurse finally declared that the hour was up, and grabbed her arm and dragged her – protesting slightly – down the rest of the way, to the nursery study. The tutor blinked at them as they came in, Bhelen still sitting at one of the small gold-brown desks.

"You're early," she noted.

Sereda gave her nurse a baleful look. "I told you," she replied, stubbornly refusing to move from the doorway as the woman tried to nudge her towards the nearest chair. Bhelen gave them both curious looks, his ginger hair sticking off of his head every which-way.

"The clock must have been off," the nurse insisted, before heaving an exasperated sigh. "My lady, if you would just-"

"No."

Bhelen snorted a laugh at her antics, cupping his hands around his nose. She looked at him, and then smiled a little. Just a little. Because as brothers went, really, the small one whom her mother had hated was still better than the older one that _nobody_ liked.

"Fine," the nurse said. "Stand there and block the doorway until your lesson begins, if you prefer." Then she smacked her hands lightly against the sides of her skirt, and before the tutor could stop her, strode off. Back down the hallway. Sereda watched her for a moment, before she turned back to the small classroom. High bookshelves lined the wall, and there were four small desks, though only one was generally in use at any given time.

The tutor raised her eyebrows at her. "Well, my young lady? _Are_ you going to linger in the doorway?" she asked.

Sereda glanced back into the hall once more, double-checking that the nurse was gone, and then with a shrug walked over to the nearest seat. "I suppose not," she conceded.

Bhelen snickered again.

* * *

Her hair had been tied in braids, and those braids threaded with gems, and then tied again, so that her scalp felt like a heavy, glittering mess when her nurses brought her out into the long hall. They bowed their heads, and then knelt down, keeping low as they approached her father. He was sitting upon his tall stone throne, clad in fine robes and looking very old, and very large to her eyes.

But when he saw her, he smiled.

"So this is my daughter, finally come of age to be presented," he said, as if he had not seen her just last week. Unfolding his hands, he beckoned her closer. "Come here, child. Let me see you better."

With a glance towards her nurses – who still held their heads low, and didn't meet her look – she took a few steps forward. "Father," she greeted, ducking into a bow.

He chuckled, and then motioned with his hand, encouraging her to do a full turn around. "Yes," he decided with a nod. "You've that look about you. As your mother would have said, noble blood breeds true – she would have been pleased."

"Thank you, Father," she intoned, as she supposed would be expected, feeling her head itch and wondering what purpose everything was meant to serve. There was no one else in the long hall. Just herself, her father, and her nurses. The question worried at her until she finally voiced it, resisting the urge to lift her fingers and scratch. "What are we doing?" she asked.

Her father threaded his fingers together, looking at her from overtop of his knuckles. "You are being presented to me, my dear," he said, casting the barest look at the nurses beside her. "Were you not told?"

"I was told," she admitted. "I just don't understand. Presented for what?"

Looking at her for a moment, his expression lightened. Then he chuckled outright. "Presented for yourself. It is tradition that when a noble child reaches your age, they are brought before their parents. That is what we are doing today."

"Oh," she replied.

She understood the word 'tradition' well enough to know never to argue with it.

Not with her father, anyway.

* * *

Everyone knew that Princess Sereda Aeducan would choose Balonar Saelac for her second during her first proving.

The young nobles and apprentices of the warrior caste had gathered in the provings arena, their talk low with nerves and excitement, the air electric with the promise of testing their mettle against one another. Balonar Saelac was one of the most promising among them. Sereda had often taken lessons with him, sparring and practicing. He was charming and strong, his chin covered with the first promises of a beard, chest almost as broad as he was tall. His family had served the Aeducans for generations, and always with distinction.

His father had strong ties to her older brother, too.

As the highest ranking noble present, it was her honour to choose her second first among the young would-be fighters. The Provings Master approached her with a smile, and it didn't strike her as a false one, either. "My Lady Aeducan," he greeted. "We have been looking forward to seeing how you fair in the arena ever since word of your talent began to spread through the training halls."

Sereda inclined her head, trying to swallow down the nerves that buzzed in her stomach and dried out her throat. Her armour felt stiff and heavy around her shoulders, gauntlets unyielding as she flexed her palms a little.

The Provings Master returned her nod, holding his registry before him. "Of course, the formalities must be observed first and foremost. Would the warriors seeking to second our noble champion please step forward," he said, raising his voice for the last sentence and addressing the chamber as a whole. The chatter quieted, and the candidates separated themselves from the cluster of their peers. Her cousin Piotin was among them, but everyone knew that his family held military aspirations for him, and that his application was little more than a formality – he was almost too old for their tier of the provings, anyway. Balonar Saelac stood up, of course, his expression politely expectant and calm with confidence, and his cousin, Gorim, followed. Gorim's bid was considered an act of optimism, she knew. He wasn't as talented as his cousin, and lacked the political and social connections of the others. There was Fereni Helmi, who was the next most likely candidate after Balonar, being both capable, well-off, and female. Some speculated that Sereda would show preference towards her own gender, she knew. Dubal Kath was the last candidate – another decent possibility, as a distant cousin to her through her mother's house.

"The prospects have made themselves known," the Provings Master noted, and the five of them bowed, crossing their arms before she returned the gesture – but not the bow. "Lady Sereda Aeducan, name your second, for the glory of this proving and the favour of the ancestors."

Sereda looked the figures over. Piotin, with his cold dismissal of possibility, Balonar, with his confident acceptance of it, Gorim, with his tiny flare of optimism, Fereni, with her near-disinterest, and Dubal, with his polite stoicism.

"I name Gorim Saelac my second," she declared, and it was almost worth it just to see how many eyes nearly jumped free of their sockets at her proclamation.

Balonar looked like he had just been made to swallow something deeply unpleasant.

After a moment, the Provings Master cleared his throat. "Very well," he said, as if he had entirely expected that answer, though she couldn't see how that was possible. So far as anyone knew, she'd never even _spoken_ to Gorim Saelac.

Which was fair. She hadn't.

She stepped back as the next young noble moved forward, to choose their own second, and Balonar gave her a positively poisonous look. She returned it with neutral disinterest, heading towards the open area before the arena gates and listening to her pulse thunder in her ears.

Gorim Saelac followed her.

"My lady," he said, giving her an uncertain look and fidgeting slightly with the edge of one of his gauntlets. "I… I am honoured."

She could see the question he wasn't asking written as clear as day all over him. It made her smile a little, to see a person who didn't guard everything about themselves like a fatal secret. "Just keep anyone from putting a knife in my back," she asked, and he let out a breath. Almost a laugh.

"I'll try. I mean – I will, my lady," he replied.

It almost distracted her from the way her skin felt like it wanted to climb off of her skeleton and flee, terrified, from the arena. Instead she turned away from her new second, and listened the Provings Master organized the other competitors until the stone rumbled slightly, and she guessed that the main gates had been opened – the spectators would be arriving.

Her father would be among them. Trian, perhaps, as well, though she wouldn't be surprised if he found a way to avoid it.

When the call finally came for them to enter the proving ring, she almost didn't hear it, so loud was the roar of blood in her ears. When she quietly pulled on her helm, she felt certain she would go completely deaf. The stone in the arena was hard and cold beneath her boots, stained with blood in places where it had gone so deep that it wouldn't ever come out.

People died, accidentally, in the provings all the time. Especially the ones for the youngest candidates, where warriors and nobles were over-eager, and the most promising youths often struck too fast and too hard and couldn't control themselves, couldn't avoid a killing blow rather than an incapacitating one.

She was going to kill someone. By accident. And when she did she would bring shame to her house and prove Trian right, that she was undeserving of the status her mother had taken such pride in.

Her hand was stiff as she waited, and her cousin Ghenath emerged from the opposite end of the arena, clad in red-gold armour that she recognized, even though the helm covered his face. The Provings Master announced their names, and their seconds. They bowed.

"May the strongest arm and bravest heart prove true," Ghenath intoned, his voice wavering only slightly with nerves.

"And may our fight honour the stone we stand upon," she returned.

When the signal to begin sounded, for a moment, all four of them simply stood there.

She moved first. She was the one who was the king's daughter, after all, and if she didn't then they might be standing there all day, waiting for her cousin to work up the nerve to strike her. The clash of blades was sharp and jarring when he met her stroke partway through, impact traveling up her arm and over her shoulder. She shifted her stance, and struck out again.

Clang.

That was when things began in earnest.

Ghenath's second sprung to life, coming at her left side, where Gorim neatly intercepted him. The song and clash of steel, the creak of armour and the sound of boots scuffing over flattened stone successfully chased the fear from her mind, leaving only the pound of adrenaline and the single-minded focus of fighting. Her body fell into long-practiced motions, and there was no time for thought. Just assessing, waiting for an opportunity.

Hesitating, at the last second, when she got one.

Ghenath seized upon the hesitation, drawing first blood with a glancing blow to her sword arm. The sting of pain and the flash of red at the edge of her gauntlet brought things sharply into contrast, and with a glare beneath her helm, she lashed out more earnestly. Her cousin fell back, step by step, Gorim locked tightly in combat with his second. There wasn't much time to spare them notice – instead she beat back Ghenath until he actually stumbled, knee hitting the stone with a loud _bang_.

She wrenched his sword from his hand at that – victory through disarmament – and then strode back and pummeled his second over the back of his helmet. The blow crashed heavily, distracting him enough for Gorim to knock him down.

With a glance at Ghenath, he stayed there.

It took her a while to wind down enough to note the cheering.

"The ancestors favour the Lady Aeducan and her chosen second, Gorim Saelac!" the Provings Master cried over the din, voice strong and carrying throughout the chamber.

Gorim's breath was a little heavy, but he was smiling as he straightened the brim of his helm. "Are you alright my lady?" he asked, eyes bright with the thrill of victory.

Sereda nodded, and the tone was set for the next bout. And the next. And the next one, too.

The whole tournament, as a matter of fact.

* * *

The Deep Roads weren't like anything she had ever seen in the palace district. There were… _hints_ of what might have been, remnants of the architecture which had once been high and strong and beautiful, of the halls that used to house the sprawling kingdoms of her people. But they were tattered and worn down, cold and empty from disuse. The air smelled thick and foul, and there were long stretches where the rock had been split by cave-ins and collapses – some natural, others purposefully done during times when the darkspawn pressed too closely to the city.

Around her the guard was solemn and stone-faced, while most of the expedition team looked edgy, even tense. She flicked her gaze over towards her older brother. Trian was not a very reassuring commander, as he did not precisely exude concern for those under his command. Beside her, she heard Gorim taking deep breaths in through his nose, and out through his mouth.

"We will proceed through the south-eastern passage and help hold that line," her brother declared, not really looking towards any of them as he gestured down the tunnel instead. "When we arrive, the commander will apprise me of their current situation, and I will issue new orders accordingly. In the meantime, slay any darkspawn we encounter, and keep in order." He gave her a pointed look at this, slightly condescending, and she met it rather blandly.

Beyond that one glance, she was given no further notable treatment from her brother – though the other members of their team were slightly more deferential. Their boots thudded heavily against the uneven, earth-strewn ground of the roads, and keeping footing was no mean feat between so many travelers and such unreliable terrain. The tunnel was broad enough, at least.

Scent hit them before sound, the air growing even fouler, and seeming to slide amongst them like heavy, fetid water. It made the back of her throat itch and the corner of her eyes tear up. As they pressed ahead they began to hear the din of battle, the dull thud and roar of sound traveling through stone, echoing oddly off of the passages so that it was hard to tell where it was truly coming from. A coppery scent joined the stench, and her eyes drifted to the shadows of the passageway as they began to pass corpses.

She had had darkspawn described to her many, many times, and been shown drawings, but she had never actually had opportunity to see one before. The creatures were skull-faced and gruesome, clad in dark, roughly-made armour, with skin and that looked bone and mouths split over sharp teeth. It was enough to make her stomach turn.

There were one or two dwarven corpses among the fallen they marched briskly past. Seeing them was potentially worse than the darkspawn, as they weren't only peppered with the injuries from weapons, but with claw and bite marks as well. One had even had his arm torn off, red flesh and blood spilling out over the dirt.

The clang of metal and cries of battle grew louder, and Trian drew his sword. The other members of their company followed suit, brandishing their weapons, the air taught with expectant fear. They quickened their pace, and when they finally broke through the end of the tunnel, the defensive line was before them.

No proving and no practice, no training at all, could do justice to the fighting spread out before them. There was no ceremony to it, and no elegance – darkspawn swarmed towards the lines of warriors, screeching and crying out, horrible in their mindless ferocity. The warriors responded in kind, eyes hazy with bloodlust as axes and blades cut through air and flesh, severing heads and limbs, gashing through torsos and rebounding off of armour. There was no time for talk, or planning. Nothing but to simply join the fray, and her stomach leapt into her throat, bile-tasting and full of dread as they were immediately drawn in among the pack of fighters.

The darkspawn had black, hollow eyes. In a way, what made it a terrifying foe also made it an easy one to destroy, as she felt no hesitation in hacking it to pieces. At all. Her weapon was heavy as it hit flesh and armour and bone, blood slicking down towards the handle. First one fell. Then another. Gorim was at her flank, the motions of his sword filling the periphery of her vision as blood flew, stinging in the few places where it landed against exposed skin.

The fight was quick and brutal, the tide turned with their arrival, and over almost as soon as it began. Blood slicked her gauntlets and made her grip uneasy, but she was relatively unharmed. A glance over at her second revealed that he was no worse off.

Most of the warriors were still charged with their battle-highs, however, and so they kept their distance, standing their ground even once the swarm had been felled. Trian held conference with the commander, who was more lucid than his men – trained to keep his head in a fight. She watched them, resisting the urge to rub at the places where darkspawn blood burned at her skin, reasoning that her blood-stained gauntlets would only make it worse.

Her brother turned back towards the unit. His second was as spattered as the rest of them, but somehow Trian had managed to avoid the results of much of the carnage. "We press forward," he declared. "We will reclaim as much of the fortifications as we can, and then collapse the tunnel."

It seemed like they'd barely gone a few feet before another surge of darkspawn was clawing up from the shadows towards them, springing out from side passages of blackened stone like creatures out of nightmares. Most were dwarven-sized, but some were bigger. A white-armoured one towered over her like a bleached skeleton, and she when she split its knee and then broke its skull open, she knew what would be featuring prominently in her nightmares for some time to come.

By the time the third wave had hit, between the darkspawn and the berserker warriors, it was difficult to keep track of herself. Or anything, really, beyond downing her foes before they had a chance to do the same to her. One of the warriors went down at the front of the line, howling in rage and pain as he was torn to pieces, and the squat darkspawn attacking her got in a good hit against one of her pauldrons. It jarred her arm so painfully that for a moment, she feared it had been dislocated.

When she brought it down, she realized that she had lost track of Gorim. Trian, as well. There wasn't much time to dwell on it – the fighting carried her forward, heedless of the growing exhaustion in her limbs, _or_ the adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was like a black, bloody tide.

They pushed and pushed until they reached the remnants of a broken gate, its jagged form shearing through the edges of the rock and hindering the darkspawn which attempted to climb over it. The commander ordered several groups to break down the two small side-passages, instructing them to route out any lingering darkspawn and seal them off, while the rest of them held the line.

She took a moment to look for Gorim, but spotted his helm nowhere amidst the blood-spattered warriors.

Concluding that he must have been swept up with one of the side-teams, she weighed her options. Since they'd lost track of each other fairly early on, she determined he must have gone with the group at the tunnel far from her – else she would have seen him – and so pressed her way through the line and down towards it. The assailing darkspawn had reduced in number, but they had an uncanny ability to navigate the small openings, cracks, and crevices in the roads, one almost dropping onto her _head_ when she first made her way to the tunnel.

She dispatched it quickly, following the din of combat until she found the group.

Her second was indeed among them, his gaze slightly glazed with the familiar disorientation of bloodlust as he defended himself.

Wordlessly, she fell into step alongside him, fighting until the unit reached a long, steep drop that led into red-tinged darkness and spewed boiling heat into the air around them. As it hit her she thought she might pass out, her lungs straining to get enough breath for her spent muscles, and finding themselves stifled.

Darkspawn were crawling up the rock. Like man-shaped spiders. By the looks of the stone around them, the tunnel might even have been their main point of entry – the means by which they had gained an edge on their defensive forces to begin with. It looked as though it had recently collapsed, turning a dead-end into an open invitation. But she wasn't sure. She had only seen diagrams of such things, and her guess might have been wrong.

"We should collapse this," she found herself saying, nevertheless, even as several of the warriors roared down at their approaching foes. Her comment went ignored, the unit's temporary commander struggling to maintain order – grabbing one of his fellows to stop him from lunging over the side of the drop, sword-drawn and eyes wild. It was too much. Between the stink of blood and the tainted air, the heat and the pain and adrenaline, madness had gained dominance.

She might have gone mad herself, but she was too shocked on the whole to get quite _there_.

"Fall back!" she shouted instead, her voice raspy but carrying surprisingly well, and echoing down into the red distance. "Fall back, now! We'll get them to bring down the passage at the mouth!"

Her attempt at command cut off into a hacking cough. To her surprise she felt a hand close around her arm, pulling her back. She glanced over at its owner to see Gorim, eyes clearer than before, looking blood-spattered and horrified.

"My lady…" he began. Then he coughed himself, and the line of his mouth hardened. "Fall back!" he bellowed. The commander joined in, then, and between the three of them, they actually managed to make it out of the tunnel alive.

* * *

"You would make a better king than Trian. Everyone knows it. Even Trian."

She blinked over at Gorim, arching a brow from where she was straightening out the golden bangles on her wrists. "Queen," she corrected.

He blinked, and then backpedaled. "Queen. Of course," he agreed, even as she smiled a little, doing one last check of her reflection before striding over to where he leaned against her doorframe.

"Tell me I look sufficiently intimidating, even without my armour," she asked, spreading her hand towards the finely embroidered gown she was wearing, a jeweled dagger sheathed at her belt and earrings glinting from where they dangled. Ordinarily she preferred her military garb for important functions, but the contingent from Kal'Sharok would be in chambers all day – at least – and sitting around like that for so many hours was a trial she could live without. Whenever possible.

"You are stunning as ever, my lady," he replied.

With a shrug, she smoothed a wrinkle out of her skirt. "I suppose that will have to do."

Gorim smiled, and then fell into step behind her as she strode into the hall, feeling underdressed despite her opulence. A few servants scurried from their path, bowing low as they passed and keeping their eyes down. "I don't trust this contingent of ambassadors," Gorim admitted while they walked. "Kal'Sharok's resentment for Orzammar's dominion grows more obvious as these talks continue. Even I can see it."

"Let them resent us," she replied. "We are not the ones constantly requesting _their_ aid against the hoards of the Deep Roads."

"True enough," he agreed. "Though it's not their might of arms which concerns me so much as their duplicity. There has been talk from Lord Harrowmont's household that one of the young lords is seeking to forge a stronger alliance with the throne of Orzammar. A marriage alliance, perhaps."

She frowned a little. "Ah."

"Indeed."

"Dare I hope he has a preference towards his own gender?" she ventured, and Gorim chuckled.

"Well, one can never tell, my lady. Though that would make a formal contract more difficult."

She waved a hand rather dismissively through the air, bracelets catching the light as they left the palace gates. "I'd rather attempt to railroad the assembly into altering marriage laws than marry someone myself at this point." As soon as she married there would be the call for children, and then she could bid her hopes for a military commission a solemn farewell.

Besides, an advantageous marriage would be a good way for her younger brother to make himself _useful_ for a change, she considered with some amusement.

The assembly chambers were – as ever – filled with the din of heavy conversation and debate, noise rolling over them as they entered. Her father was seated at the center of the activity, crown upon his brow and expression unimpressed, and Sereda made her way over to take her seat on his left. Trian was already on his right, Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont situated nearby.

Gorim sat at the wall to her back. 'To make sure no one puts a knife in it,' he'd told her, once, the first time she'd asked.

The delegation from Kal'Sharok were easily spotted, unfamiliar faces sticking out amidst the gathered lords and ladies with distinction. They looked weary from their long trip.

"My daughter," her father greeted, sparing her a rare smile. "You look the very picture of your grandmother."

She inclined her head.

"Yes. Aren't we all so gratified that you saw fit to join us," Trian muttered under his breath.

Glancing at him, she straightened her shoulders slightly. "It is good to see you home safely from your campaign, brother, though perhaps you should return to the palace. You look… tired," she suggested. "I'm certain the assembly can carry on just as well without you."

He glared. Their father raised a hand.

"Enough," he broke in. "It would serve me better if my dear daughter and eldest son could actually work well with one another." Then he cleared his throat, and as the assembly doors were closed behind the last few lords and ladies, raised both arms to call for silence. "The Assembly of Orzammar recognizes the delegation of Kal'Sharok. Under the watchful eye of the noble houses, in the halls of our ancestors, stone-met and welcome."

The members of the delegation bowed, and the assembly members repeated the formal greeting in a ripple that spread through the chamber. She settled against her seat, watching the preliminaries with some detached interest. The traditional exchanges were important, of course, but they were also long and something she had well-memorized. As the minutes spread into hours, Bhelen shifted in his seat behind her.

"Are you as bored as I am?" he asked in a whisper.

She glanced back towards him, considering. "Probably not."

He smirked. "You always did have more patience." Then he shifted again, letting out a breath. "It just seems a little pointless, don't you think? All this pretense? Surely we have better things to do with our time."

Her gaze flitted over to their father, briefly, before moving back to him. "Careful you aren't overheard, little brother. Our traditions should not be lightly maligned," she whispered back.

"Right. Loud and clear, big sister," he replied, sighing again and then leaning back into his seat. She thought she heard him mumbling something about his hindquarters falling asleep, sounding very young and sullen.

It almost made her smile.

* * *

"I'm going to have to formally dismiss whoever organized this," Sereda realized, looking over the wide, elegantly carved closet which held her family's antique arms and armour. The suits were well-kept enough, placed carefully onto their mannequins and organized – so far as she could tell at first glance – by age and gender. But the swords, daggers, axes and maces were in total disarray, weapons placed upon the wrong holders and sheathed blades clustered onto the wide stone floor.

Gorim looked at the mess from over her shoulder. "Are you certain you just want them dismissed, and not _executed?_" he offered.

"Mercy is the province of the wise," she reminded him. Then she looked back, tilting her head a bit. "Though I may have to amend that." Striding forward, she checked over her grandmother's armour. Just to be certain.

"If my lady wishes, I could proceed to the Aeducan noble house and retrieve something from their armoury," Gorim offered.

"Hmm. You may have to," she agreed. "There is a ceremonial dagger which goes with this suit. I haven't seen it in quite some time, however, so they may have it there." Turning back towards him, she smiled a little. "See what you can find?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, he bowed. "Of course, my lady. There is time yet. I will return swiftly," he promised.

With an agreeing hum, she turned back to the business at hand. It was a day to honour her, after all, and she wished to look her best.


	6. Aedan Cousland

"_We are Couslands, and we do what must be done."_

The first time he met Arl Howe he was six years old, following Fergus like a small, scruffy shadow as their father called them into the main hall – "Come, boys, we have guests!" – with his boots still muddy from running around outside, and a wooden practice sword in one hand. Their mother had taken one look at the both of them and made a sound of protest in the back of her throat.

"_Fergus,_" she had scolded, before marching over to them. Then her gaze had fixed on him and she'd knelt in front of him, pulling a twig out of his hair and shaking her head. "Look at you, my darling. What did you do? Try and wrestle with a tree?"

His brother had snorted into the back of his hand, and Aedan had grinned unabashedly. "I was practicing," he informed her, before wincing away as she licked her thumb and rubbed at one of his cheeks.

"Practicing _what,_ I don't know," she muttered. "You look as though you've been running with Chasind and wolves."

The low timbre of an unfamiliar man's voice had caught his attention, then. "Now, Eleanor, boys will be boys."

He'd craned around his mother to see its owner. The long-faced man was standing next to his father – who looked easily as amused as Fergus – with a boy closer to his brother's age standing just behind him.

"Arl Howe. Nathaniel," Fergus had greeted, using his Proper Manners.

"Young Fergus. Looking more like Bryce every day, I see," the man replied, which made his father smile.

"Eleanor, let Aedan go long enough that he can greet our guests," he'd said, shaking his head a little as she absently muttered about where Nan had got to. With a sigh she freed him, and he dashed over to his father, who was still smiling when he lowered a big hand onto the top of his head. "Pup, this is Arl Rendon Howe, and his son, Nathaniel."

Arl Howe had smiled at him. "He's a bit older than my Delilah, isn't he? And little Thomas." He had that way of speaking which adults sometimes did, where he didn't _actually_ talk to Aedan, he just talked _about_ him to the other adults in the room. "I shall have to bring them and their mother the next time I visit. I'm certain they'd like to meet you."

Nathaniel looked bored and unimpressed.

"I wish you would have brought them this time, Rendon," his mother said in an almost scolding tone. "It has been so long since I've seen Marlene. I shall have to send some things back with you for her."

"My apologies, Eleanor," Arl Howe had replied, and Aedan tuned out the rest of the conversation until his father sent Fergus and Nathaniel to go play, letting him follow after them. Nathaniel was almost as tall as Fergus, but he was round-faced and a little chubby, where Fergus was all knees and elbows. Almost as soon as they were out of the earshot of the adults, the two started in on each other.

"Don't touch me," Nathaniel said, when Fergus' shoulder 'accidentally' bumped his.

"I wasn't touching you," Fergus had replied, sounding sullen.

"You liar! You were so!" Nathaniel hissed. Aedan looked between the two of them in curiosity.

"Don't call _me_ a liar in my father's house," Fergus had replied. "_I_ wasn't touching you. My _sleeve_ was touching you."

"That's the same thing!"

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is!"

Scowling, Nathaniel had wiped his own sleeve against his nose, and then moved to rub it on Fergus' arm. Fergus had retaliated by swatting his arm away, and as Aedan watched, his eyes steadily widening, both boys had started hitting at one another. He was shocked – Nathaniel, he thought, must be really bad or something if his older brother was acting like _that_ around him.

Fergus liked _everybody_. Even girls.

The two tussled and tumbled, forcing him to take a step back as they crashed into one of the passageway's walls. Nathaniel flailed a little to regain his balance, and his hand clipped the top of Aiden's head. It didn't really hurt – or, well, it hurt _far_ less than it did when Nan cuffed him – but he frowned and rubbed at the spot all the same.

Noting it, Fergus froze.

"Did you just hit my brother?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

Nathaniel had scoffed. "I barely touched him. Besides, I didn't mean to."

"You hit my brother. He's _six_, for Maker's sake."

"I _didn't hit him!_"

"Oh, _now_ who's the liar?"

Aedan looked between them again. Fergus seemed really angry. "I'm alright," he said, because he was. He'd knocked _himself_ harder with his practice sword outside not ten minutes ago.

"See? He's fine," Nathaniel had said, starting to look a little bit nervous. "No harm done."

Fergus punched him square across the face. Aedan's jaw dropped as Nathaniel said something that Nan would wash his mouth out for, and punched him back. The fighting turned from irritated to earnest, after that, and it wasn't long before the cries of pain and protest got a little bit too loud. He could only watch in amazement – his brother was beating the _snot_ out of Arl Howe's son.

Nan didn't turn up quick enough to save either of them from black eyes. She rounded the corner, took one look at the scene, and then grabbed both Fergus and Nathaniel by their ears and yanked them apart. "Fighting like dogs in the hall! Fergus Cousland, I ought to box your ears!" she had snapped.

"He started it!" Fergus had protested, pointing at Nathaniel, who looked red-faced and furious. But he didn't protest his innocence to Nan, either, which surprised Aedan.

"I don't care _who _started it," Nan decreed, dragging the both of them down the corridor and towards the kitchens. "You don't see your teyrn father scuffling into fights with arls in his hallways, now do you?"

Aedan had tried to picture that. It had been a little tricky, but after a few minutes he'd decided that it would be a lot more fun to watch his father fight his guests than stand around and talk to them. Fergus had looked sullen and grumbled a little as Nan cleaned him and Nathaniel up, sending one of the elves to get something from the cold store to press against both of their swelling bruises.

While she was distracted, Aedan had sidled up to his brother, tugging at his sleeve. "That was _really awesome,_" he said.

Fergus hadn't exactly looked happy about it, just sort of nodded, but after a few seconds he set his shoulders back, and his chest had puffed out just a little bit, too.

* * *

"Stop fidgeting, love," his mother instructed as he pulled at the high, embroidered collar around his neck. He frowned, scratching at the side of his leg instead, where his brightly coloured trousers were itching.

"Do I _have_ to go?" he asked, looking up at her with beseeching eyes which, on occasion, had been known to garner him extra cookies, a new practice sword, and another hour of playtime between his studies. Fergus called it 'cheating'.

Sadly, the trick failed him right then. "_Yes,"_ she said firmly, giving the back of his hand a light smack to keep him from scarring the fabric of his clothes. "One day you will be holding such functions yourself, you know. You'll have to get used to them sooner or later."

He made a face, but didn't say anything, not even when she leaned over and kissed him soundly on his brow. "It won't be so bad, I promise. And you get to escort Delilah. You like her, don't you?"

Aedan gave her an incredulous look. "I don't _like_ her!" he protested. "She isn't even nice to me!" Though she did, he supposed, have rather pretty dark hair. But that hardly made up for the fact that she was always punching him and pinching him and he couldn't do anything back to her, because Cousland men didn't hit girls who weren't actively threatening them with swords. Especially when they were _little_ girls.

His mother just laughed. "Maybe when you're older, then," she suggested, before giving him a satisfied look, and nudging him towards the door. "Remember what I told you. Just follow Fergus, and be nice," she instructed.

"'M always nice," he muttered under his breath. Then she gave him another nudge, and with a long-suffering sigh, he did as told, glancing back once to see her to leave to find his father.

He briefly considered making a run for it. But it probably wasn't worth the trouble he would get into, so instead he glared at his feet as he shuffled his way over to the side arch, where the other young nobles were drinking refreshments and waiting for the feasting and celebrating to begin in earnest. Fergus was there, of course, talking to Arl Urien's son. They both looked like someone had just dropped something foul-smelling right under their noses.

Thomas looked to have spilled a drink onto his fine blue jacket _already_, and was attempting – along with Delilah – to paw it clean. Aedan purposefully ignored them, making his way over towards his brother.

He couldn't spot Nathaniel anywhere right then, which was a little disappointing, since if Fergus decided to start a fight maybe he'd get out of the party _and_ not be in any trouble for it, either. The thought had only just occurred to him when he nearly walked into an older girl.

She had pretty blue-green gemstones in her hair, and was wearing a fancy gown in rich reds and oranges that _actually_ looked rather pretty. He blinked up at her, recalling his etiquette lessons when he realized his near-collision and that he didn't have any idea who she was. Taking a step back, he bowed a little self-consciously. "My apologies, my lady, I did not see you there," he said.

He rather thought his tutor would be proud.

The girl smiled. "You are adorable," she replied, with very crisp, precisely spoken words that carried just a hint of an accent he'd never heard before.

He frowned.

"No, my lady, although you are very pretty." It wasn't that he _objected_ to being adorable, per se, but only his mother was really allowed to call him that. Otherwise Fergus would poke fun.

She laughed, though it was a small, soft sound, as if it wasn't something she was much good at and still needed to practice. "I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Oriana Galario, daughter of Oren Galario, merchant prince of Antiva." She inclined her head towards him.

He straightened himself up a little, resisting the urge to scratch at his leg again. "I'm Aedan Cousland, son of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland who are teyrn and teyrna of Highever." Then he paused for a second, and thought. "In Ferelden."

Oriana's mouth quirked, as if she wanted to smile more broadly but was stopping herself for some reason. "I know," she admitted.

One of the servants came, then, and formally told them all that the celebration was to begin, and to please proceed into the main hall, if they would. Aedan did a bad job of suppressing a sigh. He wished he could escort Oriana instead of Delilah, if only because she didn't look like the sort of girl who would pinch him for _no good reason_.

Or better yet, go in alone.

But instead he stomped over to where Arl Howe's youngest children were, and rather sullenly extended his arm towards her. "Let's get it over with, then," he said.

Delilah scowled at him. She hooked her hand rather roughly through his elbow, and before he could catch it, reached over and flicked the side of his cheek. Her nails stung as they scratched, and he flinched back and glared at her. "You're a terrible escort," Delilah told him, sniffing as though he were unleashing some particularly foul stench into the air.

Which he knew he wasn't, because his mother never would have let him go if he had been, and Nan had made him take a bath that morning.

"How would you know? You've never been escorted anywhere before."

Thomas looked like he didn't know whether to defend his sister's honour, or laugh. Delilah wasn't as conflicted.

"I have so," she replied, sticking her chin up into the air. "In Amaranthine I have lots and _lots_ of suitors."

"No you don't," Thomas said, and she shot him a betrayed look. He shrugged. "Well you don't. Mother says you're too young for suitors anyway."

"_Be quiet_, Thomas," she hissed, before sucking in a breath and then giving Aedan's arm a yank. He had little choice but to follow it as the other young nobles began to enter the main hall. Fergus was ahead of him, escorting a girl he recognized as Alfstanna from Waking Sea. She didn't look much more comfortable in her fancy clothes than he did.

Most of the adults were already in the hall as they filed in, and he just sort of let Delilah drag him where she willed, which eventually left them standing next to Nathaniel and – to his pleased surprise – Oriana Galario. She caught his eye, and her mouth twitched upwards a little bit again.

He didn't have much time to note it, however, as the large door to the main hall opened right then. His parents were standing at the end, dressed in their finery as they wait to greet the main event of the evening. Aedan craned his neck a little bit to try and see better, as a rather opulently clad herald proceeded into the room and announced the arrival of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir and his daughter, the young lady Anora. Of course, they had _actually_ arrived earlier than that, although – according to his mother – they'd been 'resting'.

He knew that Teyrn Loghain was the only other teyrn in Highever, apart from his father. The man didn't look a lot like Bryce Cousland. He had a long, hawkish face, and he stared straight ahead as he walked, like Fergus did when he knew people were looking but didn't want to stare back at them. Anora was as different from him as night and day, meeting everyone's gaze as she passed and beaming enthusiastically.

Aedan kept his eyes on them, wondering what they were really like until Delilah pinched him. Then he scowled at her instead, and tamped down on the urge to protest. The whole room was filled with a kind of expectant quiet. If he said anything, everyone would probably be able to hear it.

"Welcome to Highever, Teyrn Loghain. A hero such as yourself honours us with his presence," his father greeted.

Teyrn Loghain didn't seem to agree, as he raised a hand to his brow and let out a long sigh.

"Let's get on with this, then," he replied, which was _probably_ not the official way to start things, but after a beat everyone decided to take it as such all the same. At the first available moment, Aedan dropped Delilah's arm and rubbed the spot by his wrist where she'd pinched him.

"You are a _witch_," he informed her in a fierce whisper, once conversation began to flow across the room.

She gave him a rather haughty look. "If I was, you'd already be a toad," she assured him as they took their seats at the large banquet table which had been prepared. Aedan almost forgot himself and let her seat them next to her brothers, before he remembered his instructions and dragged her up to where Fergus and his parents were, nearer to their important guests.

"You know as well as I do that nothing good will come of increased trade with Orlais," Teyrn Loghain was saying to his father, utterly ignoring the spread of dishes in front of him even as the rest of them filled their plates. "The more we continue to depend on imports from their lands, the more we sacrifice our hard-earned independence from them." Anora was sitting beside him, with her fair hair wound into intricate braids, looking like the sort of little girl Aedan was only used to seeing in paintings. Even though they were right across from one another, she gave him only a glance and then completely ignored him.

"Please, Loghain," his father replied. "Tonight is reserved for festivities. There will be plenty of time to argue politics tomorrow." He smiled. "In the meantime, why don't you at least make an _effort_ to enjoy yourself?"

"Forgive me if I fail to see the point in this… excess," the other teyrn grumbled, but he stopped bringing up trade and Orlais after that.

Anora cut her venison into near-perfect little squares and examined each one before she ate it, which just seemed bizarre to Aedan, who tried to fit as much meat into his mouth as possible without engaging in Bad Table Manners. He had to contest with Delilah, who kept slipping things he didn't like onto his plate when he wasn't looking, and kicking at his shin now and then.

An opportunity for revenge presented itself while Fergus was trying to talk to the teyrn about hunting. Loghain responded to his questions a little curtly, but not in an unfriendly way, and as he did Aedan noticed a tiny black spider crawling along the hem of the embroidered table cloth. He wasn't surprised. Even though the servants always did a good job of cleaning things, the castle was _full_ of spiders come spring, and no amount of sweeping webs away could stop them from crawling in between the cracks in the stone.

With a quick glance up to make certain no one was looking, Aedan scooped the spider off of the cloth as carefully as he could, and onto his palm.

Then he dropped it down the back of Delilah's dress.

She glared at him, clearly having noticed him move but not managing to catch what he'd done. Her face scrunched up a little, and she shifted very slightly, as though she had an itch. He was just congratulating himself on getting away with it when he turned back to the table, and realized that the teyrn had glanced his way.

Oh.

Oops.

Loghain held his gaze for a second. He expected to get called out on un-lordly behaviour, and internally winced at the thought of getting another lecture from Nan after the fact. His parents would probably be disappointed that he'd misbehaved in front of their guests, too.

But then the second broke, and the man just turned back to his conversation with Fergus and didn't mention it at all.

Aedan decided he rather liked him after that.

* * *

The market in Denerim was bigger and louder than the markets in Highever, with the crush of people pressed together amidst many tall buildings and narrow, crowded streets filled with colourful banners and the sounds of merchants shouting their sales over the din. Aedan had seen it once before, of course, and Fergus more times than that, but this would be the first trip for which his friend Rory accompanied them.

"We're going to get trampled," Rory said with conviction, as Aedan slugged him in the arm and snorted.

"I'm the enormous son of a teyrn, no one's going to trample me, at least," he pointed out, grinning as Rory heaved a sigh of heartfelt long-suffering, and gave Fergus a pleading look. _Save me from your insane brother_, it said. _He is going to get me killed. Horribly._

"Well, have fun little brother," Fergus cruelly advised, clapping him on the shoulder. Aedan grinned, because ever since his last growth-spurt they were almost standing eye-to-eye for the first time in his life, and he was rather enjoying the experience. "Don't lose your guards too quickly or father's going to have them all re-trained. Good luck, Squire Gilmore."

Rory deflated. "Thank you, of course, Lord Fergus. It was an honour to be included on this trip."

"Don't mention it. And keep him out of trouble!" Fergus replied with a grin, gesturing towards Aedan before he headed, his own guards in tow, for the western side of the market. He moved like a man with a mission, and Aedan wondered – not for the first time – what was so important about going to Denerim this year. His brother had a fire underneath him for some reason.

"Why do they always give me that job?" Rory asked the sky. "It's an impossible job."

"I'm not _that_ bad."

"I'd sooner try and catch rain with a net than try and keep you from trouble," he replied in an utterly deadpan tone of voice. Behind them, one of the guard snorted before he managed to cover it up.

Aedan just shrugged. "Well, we'll do that later. Right now we've got an entire marketplace to explore. Come on." He gave Rory another punch, and then began to weave his way through the crowded throngs. It wasn't as hard as it might have been. People had a way of clearing a path for well-dressed young men with armed escorts, although practically ever merchant who spotted him tried to entice them over.

"Didn't your father ask you to bring back a gift for your mother?" Rory asked, looking around and actually seeming interested, despite his apprehensions.

"Oh, probably," Aedan replied, b-lining for the weapons merchants. Highever had excellent smiths, but not terribly creative ones. Denerim's market saw traffic from ports all over Ferelden, and the first time he'd gone, he had been more interested in the strange and varied designs than anything else. "You can go find her something if you like."

Rory gave him a look. "I think I'll stay where I am. Getting lost in this wouldn't be ideal." He followed the line of Aedan's gaze, then, and blinked. "What are those?" he asked, noting the stalls and shops leading off of the smithy.

"Those?" Aedan asked, ignoring a nearby merchant in favour of gesturing to his wares. "Those are cutlasses. I saw them last time. They're mostly Antivan design – you should see the weapons modeled after the ones the giants use," he advised. "Wouldn't want to have one of _them_ slicing at your neck, I'll tell you that. Dwarven crossbows are fairly interesting as well. I was meaning to get one, try and figure out how it works."

"You're a great mechanic now?" Rory asked skeptically.

"I'm an educated lordling, am I not?" Aedan asked, grinning. "An able mind can unravel any mystery. Besides. You don't know. Perhaps I am a hidden talent."

"Well I suppose anything can happen."

Sighing the long-suffering sigh of a young nobleman unjustly put-upon by insolent squires, Aedan proceeded to drag him all over the market place just for that. Having grown up in a very tiny village, and still finding Highever Castle to be overwhelmingly huge on occasion, Rory was the perfect person to bring to Denerim. Largely because he found everything impressive to the point of near-panic, which was amusing at least.

Of course, the trip was really made worthwhile by the two crossbows and three swords he purchased, before relenting and deciding that he might as well find something for his mother.

There was a broad selection of pretty gems and bangles, but as she already had an entire chest full of those, he was reasonably sure that such a gift would get a thank you and then be swept away with all the rest. Silks and perfumes were probably better, except that he knew enough to know that he wasn't much of a judge for them.

The last time Fergus had brought home fabric, Aedan had caught their mother giving it to the castle's servants and watching them try not to laugh at the ridiculous orange whorls printed on it.

Personally, he didn't see how it was any more ridiculous than the pink and gold dress trousers she insisted were the handsomest thing he owned. Which was why he knew better than to even try. For a while he let Orlesian merchants attempt to ply him with scents, but they all smelled like they came out of the back end of a dog to him.

"You're not very good at this," Rory pointed out.

"Yes I am," Aedan replied. "That's why it's taking a while."

At which point, he saw it.

The bow was crafted out of an elegant, lightly coloured wood, with a very odd-looking deer stamped into the frame and a pattern of vines shaped along its smoothly polished surface. He plucked it from the rack, and was immediately surprised – the thing felt far too light. More like a toy than a real weapon. It wasn't strung, and he frowned a little.

"Caught your eye, did it?" the merchant asked. "That's Dalish make, that is."

"Dalish?" Rory replied, as Aedan shifted his grip, flexing his palm against the grain. It didn't feel like it had been hollowed out. "People will believe anything."

"It's true," the merchant insisted. "I've a friend who does trade with them from time to time, over in Amaranthine. They've mysterious lore and craft. Like that bow." He gestured towards it. "Light as a feather but strong as you like. Arrows sing from it, my lord, when they fly, I'll promise you."

Aedan found that a little hard to believe. But it was definitely a beautifully decorated thing, if nothing else, with a dash of the wild thrown in with its elegance. "What are you asking for it?"

The merchant told him, and after about fifteen solid minutes of haggling, he got him down to a fair price. When they left the stall, Rory shook his head at him. "You didn't actually believe him, did you?" he asked.

"It doesn't much matter," he reasoned. "It was a nice story. Mother will like it, anyway."

"Wait. You bought that for your _lady mother?"_ his friend asked. "You know she is not a maiden of war any longer, I hope?"

"Rory," he laughed. "Maker willing, there shall probably came a day when I am too old to lift a blade. But I shall never be too old to own one," he replied, which, unintentionally, actually made him sound shockingly like his father. Rory must have noticed too, because he blinked in abrupt surprise, and actually went silent after that.

"You just-"

"No I didn't. Shut up," he replied.

"I'll remember that quote. The scribes can use it ironically in your biography, after you die in battle."

"Squire Gilmore. Shut. Up."

The severity of his command was probably undermined by the way he kept smiling.

* * *

Oriana, he thought, had looked much prettier when he was a child and she was dressed in her bright Antivan colours than she did standing next to Fergus in Ferelden wedding whites. But as far as sisters went, he decided, she was quite an acceptable family addition. A little bit odd, but all the best people were.

He rose at the banquet hall, holding up his goblet in one hand. The decorations were extravagant, verging on ridiculous, and their mother had wavered between extreme pride and extreme sentimentality in them. Oriana herself had given in with good-natured deference, likely knowing that the second ceremony in Antiva would be more or less in her hands.

"A toast, then, to my brother, and his beautiful new bride," he began, his mind racing with all of the terrible things he could do to Fergus right then. Fergus, who was just beaming like an idiot and holding his new wife's slender hand. With an internal sigh for all the havoc which would never live to be wrought, he smiled back at his brother. "I am incredibly relieved to find that you have excellent taste in wives, Fergus, as it means I have excellent luck in sisters…"

He carried on with the usual well-wishes, curbing his urge to embarrass, and when he sat back down he was surprised to have Oriana lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

He was even _more_ surprised to have Fergus lean over, then, and do the same. As the banquet hall burst into laughter, he glared at his brother and scrubbed at the side of his head. The move only seemed to garner more laughter, and then his mother leaned over to kiss him, too, and he knew he was doomed.

"I shouldn't have been nice," he griped. "I should have told them all about your love of ale and wenches and apologized repeatedly to poor Oriana." So inspired, he looked over at his new sister-in-law, expression open and earnest. "Truly. I am sorry about Fergus."

She only laughed, of course, and his father clapped him on the shoulder. Which was frankly a relief, since at least it wasn't another kiss.

"Now, pup, you mustn't blame them. Weddings tend to breed affection," he advised.

Aedan gave him a sidelong look. "Or contempt. I still remember you dragging me to Arl Eamon's wedding, you know." That was actually a rather entertaining memory. He'd never heard so many backhanded compliments delivered in so many varied and nuanced ways before.

His father chuckled. "Allow me to rephrase, then," he decided. "Weddings to Antivans breed affection. Weddings to Orlesians... less so."

After a second of thought, he let out a long, tragic sigh. "Then I shall have to send word to the Empress of Orlais. The wedding will tragically have to be canceled."

The comment, for whatever reason, broke the table apart into peals of laughter again. Grinning back at his family, Aedan supposed it was just that sort of day.

* * *

The puppy was all feet, with sand-coloured fur and enormous brown eyes. He kept tripping all over himself and his brothers and sisters, rolling around in a heap within the large, open pen. Aedan zeroed in on him right away, although he wasn't sure why. He wasn't the most interesting of the puppies to look at, or the biggest, or, conversely, the smallest, either. But he was doing his level best to stumble to his clumsy too-big paws, and he was making very distinctive little yips.

"Just go in there," the mabari keeper advised. "Be gentle. The mother won't hurt you, not unless you do something violent. If one of the pups takes, you'll know."

"How?" he wondered, even as he found himself slipping through the gate. Then he forgot his question as he was suddenly in the midst of rolling, chewing, yipping puppies, all of them bounding over curiously to sniff at his boots and chew on one another's ears.

It was kind of cute.

Okay, it was really the most ridiculously adorable thing he'd ever seen. They were _puppies_. Floppy, playing, yipping, fuzzy _puppies._

The sand-coloured one was no slouch in the running over to investigate him department. He tripped halfway, and Aedan laughed, crossing the distance and going to help him back onto his legs. Or at least that was his intention. But the puppy squirmed in his grip, stubby little tail still going a million miles per hour as he proceeded to nip and lick his fingers.

"Ouch," he protested, without much vehemence.

The puppy barked back, and lunged forward to maul his bootlaces.

* * *

It was the dog's barking that alerted them to the issue, at first. Later, Oriana would ply him with table scraps and spoil him rotten for almost a full month, but at the time she had frozen up like a statue in pure terror.

"Oren," she said, staring up as Aedan tried to figure out what had set his dog to barking. Her voice was quiet enough that he didn't hear her at first. "Oren!" she said, a little louder the second time, and looking over he followed her gaze up, up, to the arched castle window, where the four-year-old was perched. His chubby legs dangled in the air, absolutely nothing between them and a fatal drop.

Oriana put her hands to her mouthing, obviously biting back a shout. "How…" she breathed between her fingers, and Aedan found himself wondering the same thing. His mouth had gone utterly dry.

A few seconds later, his mind started working again. "Go," he said, gesturing slowly towards the door, still looking up at his little nephew. "Go inside and up the stairs. I'll stay here."

She looked at him, obviously torn between the urge to race off, and the one not to let her son out of her sight. Then – quickly – she did as he suggested, taking off towards the door as Aedan stared up the long, high wall. The dog had settled down, and was sitting patiently, apparently satisfied that he'd done his job now.

Quickly, he looked over the nearest section of stone and mortar.

"Hello Uncle!" Oren called down to him, kicking his feet.

Swallowing in a deep breath, he moved forward. "Hello, Oren," he called back, keeping his voice light and cheerful. His fingers slotted neatly along the mortar of the stones, but his boots were too thick for them. Leaning down, he yanked them off, using his toes instead. His heart was in his stomach, and he forced himself to keep his breathing even as he started the pull himself up.

He'd never been so glad before that the castle was as old as it was.

"You climbin'?" Oren called down to him, once he was a few feet off of the ground. The stone was rough and painful against his skin, and he was fairly certain he'd already bloodied one of his toes.

"I am," he replied, the muscles in his hands and feet straining as he forced his weight onto them. His chest scraped against the wall when he pulled himself up, having to keep as close as he could or risk falling. One handhold, then a foothold, then the next. He kept his eyes up on his little nephew when he wasn't focused on looking for the deepest grooves and most uneven places to lodge himself.

When he was about halfway, he started to wonder what had Oriana held up.

As if on cue, Oren turned to look behind himself, the movement making Aedan look at him sharply. But the four-year-old didn't fall… or, preferably, go back inside, either.

"What are you doing on the sill?" he asked, before sucking in a deep breath and biting back a curse as a sharp corner of stone sliced his palm. He left a bloody handprint on the wall as he continued his upward journey.

"Nan fell down," Oren replied, looking behind himself again and giving his uncle another small heart-attack as he twisted.

"Nan fell down?"

The little boy nodded vigorously.

"That doesn't sound very good." Which was a gross understatement. If Nan had collapsed then it would certainly explain how Oren had been permitted to clamber onto the sill, though that meant he was now worried for two people rather than one. It also didn't explain where Oriana was, but he was high enough anyway by that point that going down would have taken more effort than continuing up. The muscles in his arms shook, burning as he clung and lifted.

When he finally got to the sill his hands and feet were bloody, painful wrecks, and Oren's eyes widened as he saw the red before he was promptly scooped up. Aedan all but flung them through the window and back into the room, holding the small boy to his chest and landing on his back. The rather desperate move knocked the last of the wind out of him, and he heard the pounding then – something pounding at the door.

Oren, now frightened, started to cry.

"It's alright, Orie," he soothed, rubbing his back – and then grimacing as he realized he was smearing blood over his shirt, before staggering back to his feet.

Nan had, indeed, fallen down. Dramatically. She was crumpled on the floor, which didn't do much for his nerves, and she'd taken a heavy dresser down with her. By the Maker's luck it hadn't landed _on_ her, but it _had_ crashed in front of the door. Which explained the banging coming from the other side, as the wood strained – and possibly why Oren had gone to the window in the first place, too.

Stumbling over to the dresser, he kept one arm around his nephew and then used the other to grip it, pushing back up until it was out of the way.

At which point, of course, the door flew open and promptly crashed into his back.

"Oren?" Oriana demanded, flying into the room with two elven servants on her heels. Her gaze flew to the window, first, then to him, eyes widening, before they finally rested on Nan, and back to him again. "Oh, Maker!"

Oren was still crying, so Aedan handed him over to his mother – who was relieved to take him, even as she flashed a concerned look to his hands and feet. He let the servants gather up Nan before he finally gave in and sank heavily onto the side of the bed.

"Is she alright?" he asked. There was the sound of more footsteps hurrying up the interior steps, and then the small room promptly became _very_ crowded as Fergus, his mother, _and_ his father all poured in, along with another servant. All at once there was a clamour of voices as everyone was asking questions, trying to figure out what had happened and was Oren alright, and oh, Maker, Aedan, what happened to you, and he looked over to where the servants laid out Nan on the bed behind him.

When she groaned and moved her head, he finally let out the breath he'd been holding.

* * *

His first thought when he woke up that morning was, _I hope Arl Howe didn't bring his family with him._

His second thought was, _ack_, as his dog promptly concluded that he'd slept for long enough, and leapt up onto the bed. Tail wagging, he dragged a long trail of drool over the sheets as he started licking at his face.

"I'm up, I'm up," he protested, raising his hands defensively and then giving in and patting Dog behind his pointed ears. He earned another tremendous lick down the side of his cheek for his efforts, and then a paw in his gut as the enormous hound bounded back down off the mattress, using _him_ as a handy springboard.

Sighing, he made an effort at mopping the drool off of his face, and gave his dog an unimpressed look. "Just for that, no treats today," he promised.

Dog whined.


End file.
